


Samson and Delilah

by Crystalwren



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalwren/pseuds/Crystalwren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For each man kills the things he loves...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delilah: I

**Author's Note:**

> _They'd shaved her hair. _ _Her beautiful, long blonde hair._

_They'd shaved her hair. _ _Her beautiful, long blonde hair._

_It was kind of Biblical, really, like a female Samson. Her hair was shaven and so her strength had vanished. It was _ _a soft_ _ yellow fuzz all over her head, except where it grew in strange white tufts over the suture scars._

("Your hand," he says. "May I take it?")

_Her skin, never meant to be pale, had turned an unhealthy sallow colour. Her eyes, blue as glaciers and half as merciful, were dull and empty. Her mouth was slack. Sometimes she drooled. She never spoke. _ _Poor Integra._

(He checks the catheters, one in each wrist, before he takes a pair of clippers and begins to cut her fingernails. Carefully, so as not to hurt her.)

_The new head of Hellsing was an ignorant whelp, never saw a vampire in his life before he took- or tried to take- Integra's place. He'd learned everything he knew from books and secret reports. He thought that the business of monster killing was barbaric and unnecessarily brutal. He called Integra 'that dribbling madwoman' whenever he thought Walter was out of earshot. Alucard took great pleasure in scaring the boy witless at every possible opportunity._

(He files the edges down and dips her fingertips in a bowl of warm water to clean away the residue. A thin thread of saliva trickles down her chin and he wipes it off with the bib that the nurses always insist on tying around her neck.)

_His Integra._ _His commander._ _His little girl._ _ He'd failed to protect her and so her skull was cracked and so was her mind. The new Hellsing spared no expense when it came to care and nurses, but Walter knew he could do a much better job himself. He preformed his duties as a member of the organisation, but he wasn't a butler any more. The little shit could get his own damn tea and besides, someone had to look after Integra. The hired carers were always in a flap, muttering about bats and centipedes and disembodied eyeballs appearing in unexpected places. When they were there, caring for Integra as they should they spoke to her like she was an idiot, all cooing baby talk. Alucard ground his formidable teeth at the mere sight of them._

(He untied the bib. "Your pardon, Sir Integra," as he began to unbutton her shirt.)

_So hard to get good help these days._ _ It was all he could do not to wrap them in his wires and leave the remains for the house staff to clean up._

(No bra, not point in putting one on her if she isn't moving around. He runs the washcloth over her torso and beneath her arms, pausing from time to time to rinse the cloth in the water. She's lost muscle tone, she's softer than she should be but that can't be helped.)

_Integra._ _Integral _ _Wingates_ _Fairbrook_ _ Hellsing._ _ What a mouthful!_

(Alucard is standing behind him.)

_Poor Integra._ _Poor little girl._ _His little girl._ _ Why, she was practically his daughter when you thought about it._

(The vampire tugs the cloth out of Walter's hand, nudging him aside. Walter checks the catheters again, and the little soft tubes filled with fluid. Alucard tilts Integra's head back so he can wash her throat. His hand drags the washcloth down, over her collarbone and down her sternum. He drops the soaking material when he reaches her breast. Walter clucks and retrieves it quickly before it can stain her trousers.)

_Without a doubt it would not be long before she was her old self again. She'd send that brainless whelp packing in no time at all._

(Alucard strokes the underside of her breast with thumb and forefinger, gently, meditatively. He leans forward and begins to mouth her neck.)

_Two lines of fluid, one in each wrist._ _One going in, the other going out._

(He grabs Alucard by the hair and pulls him away from Integra. "No biting!")

_Two lines of fluid._

(Alucard snarls, but acquiesces. He strokes Integra one last time before setting her shirt to rights.)

_One going in._

(There must be no bite marks on her flesh.)

_One going out._

(Just a little, and all will be set to rights. Just enough to give a nudge. Just a little, and no one need ever know. Not even Integra herself.)


	2. Samson: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Did you end your life in peace?_

_Did you end your life in peace?_

_Did you die in pain? Were you afraid?_

_Your palms have gone cold in a tightly clenched fist._

_Your red lips and hair that blew in the wind, made me wonder if this might have been a dream._

_Kill me with the pain you felt; with your final goodbye._

_Take me with you._

-'Angel Sanctuary' V1 by Kaori Yuki (VIZ)

* * *

_That was then:_

The day was hot; the sun burned white in a sky that was the same shade of startling blue as her eyes.

Integra yawned and stretched, wiggling a little on the leather seat.

"I'm so tired," she said, taking off her glasses and polishing them with the bottom of her jacket.

"Don't do that," Walter chided gently. He pulled a soft lens cloth from his pocket and held his hand out for her glasses. She smiled and gave them to him.

"A place for everything and everything in its place?" she said, blinking at him myopically.

"Indeed, Sir Integra."

She yawned again, covering her mouth with her hand. "I don't believe this. We've spent the last three weeks running that operation and the council still expects us to be there!"

"I never thought I'd see the day when you didn't want to see a large munitions demonstration."

"Honestly," said Integra, putting her glasses back on, "neither did I. You seem very awake for a man who has slept maybe eight hours in the past seventy-two."

"It's a knack one picks up in service."

She wrinkled her nose and toggled the intercom. "How much longer until we're there?"

"Five minutes if that, marm," came the reply of the chauffer.

"Ah well, it could be worse," said Integra impishly, _"You_ could be driving."

Walter raised an eyebrow. "There is nothing wrong with my driving."

"You drive this limo like you would a tank."

"With the amount of bullet-proof glass in this thing it might as well be," he said, and she grinned.

The limousine slowed and came to a halt. The location was, strictly speaking, so top secret as to be nonexistent. Somewhere in Ireland, perhaps. Somewhere in the country, surrounded by rolling hills and incessant, unceasing, blinding green. The all-clear from the security team crackled over the intercom. Walter got out first and looked around. He could see nothing amiss and there was no reason why it should be. He extended his hand to Integra and she took it. The sunshine hit her hair like a halo and she smiled. She was still smiling as he heard the soft pop that turned her bright hair into a vivid, viscous red.

He had seen more people die than he could count, had slaughtered so many human and inhuman monsters in the name of Queen and country. He had cleaned away a hundred thousand corpses and lied to a hundred thousand people when they asked where their friends and family and lovers had gone. He had always prided himself in being able to take absolutely anything in his stride but for the first time in his life he found he could do nothing but hold her in his arms and weep as the blood flowed out from between the shattered plates of her skull, covered them both.

* * *

_This is now:_

"Warlter!"

She loved bath time.

"Warlter!"

She laughed, naked and slick as a seal, slipping out of his hands and out of reach of the washcloth.

"Warlter!" she laughed again, and scooped up a handful of suds and water, dumping it over his head. He sighed as a great glob of froth landed squarely on his nose. She burst into giggles as he crossed his eyes trying to blow it off.

"You are a pain, child," he told her mildly. He pulled a towel from the pile on the floor and used it to wipe away the water and foam running down his neck. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an expression of low cunning cross her face as she swept more bubbles up into a wobbly tower. Pretending not to notice, pretending that he was more interested in getting the last droplets of water out of his ear he didn't look up as she slithered closer. She scooped up her bubbles, obviously planning to repeat the same trick, and then he struck. He threw down the towel and grabbed the washcloth again, seizing her chin and holding it firmly between his thumb and forefinger. He washed her face thoroughly as she squirmed impatiently. "There now," he said tenderly, "doesn't that feel better?"

Never one to waste a resource, she replied by dumping her bubble mountain into his lap. She was delighted at her success, and crowed exuberantly as he stood and pulled her out of the bathtub and began to dry her. "Wretched child," he said.

She laughed. "Warlter!" she said. "Love you!" Wet and soapy and naked she threw her arms around him and hugged tight. At this he felt the constant pain in his chest ease, just a little.

"'A'," said Walter. "'A is for Apple.' Say it with me: 'A is for…'"

Integra blinked at him. "Ay?" she said. "Ay?"

"'A is for apple.' Apple."

"Apple!" she said, and picked up his hands, turning them over and touching his palms. "Apple?" she looked at him expectantly.

"No, Integra," said Walter. He held out the book to her, page open to show a drawing of an impossibly perfect fruit. "Look. 'A is for apple.'" He took her hand and traced her forefinger along the along the letter A.

Integra looked at the picture, coloured a vibrant, glossy red. "Ay," she said slowly.

"That's right."

"Ay is for apple."

"Yes! Good girl. Now: B is for…"

"Apple!" She jumped up and ran into the kitchenette where one of the professional carers was preparing morning tea for her. "Ay is for apple!" she said firmly, tugging on the woman's sleave.

"That's nice, dear," the nurse replied, placidly spooning tinned salmon onto a piece of bread.

"Apple! Ay is for apple!"

"Yes, dear."

"Apple!" demanded Integra, stomping her foot.

The nurse shrugged. She took an apple from the fruit bowl and handed it to her charge, who took it and wandered off, happily gnawing. Walter glowered at her, and then at the nurse.

"Don't you give me that look," said the nurse calmly. "The doctors keep telling you that reading is beyond her skill level."

"Nothing is beyond her," snapped Walter.

"In the future, maybe. But for now-"

There was a knock on the door, interrupting the argument before it could start. One of Sir Hellsing's pet lackeys, wearing the charcoal grey suit and black silk tie that seemed to be the uniform of his brethren, cleared his throat politely.

"Walter, are you busy? Sir wants to see you."

Walter nodded curtly, and with a final glare at the nurse he set the Child's First Alphabet book aside and rose to go.

"Bye-bye Walter!" sang Integra.

"Goodbye, Integra," he sighed, and followed the lackey. Halfway down the hallway there was a crash and a yelp.

"Centipedes!" yelled the nurse. Walter wasn't entirely above smirking.

* * *

He was Sir Hellsing, always Sir Hellsing. He was Integra's replacement and none of the staff would ever call him by his first name, never ever, no matter how often he told them to. He was a second or third cousin, English aristocracy, lacking a chin and the knowledge that he was just a cheap imitation of the real thing.

Walter _hated _him.

He was _not _the rightful head of Hellsing, he was _not_ an adequate replacement for Integra, he was _not _a warrior, he knew nothing of monsters or vampires. He was a desk solider with no field experience that should have stayed in the army. One thing Sir Hellsing did know, however: he knew how Walter felt, no matter how much the butler smiled and bowed and swore otherwise and the old man soon found himself passed by.

So Walter had tended his Integra carefully instead and when he realised that she would never wake, never move or speak of her own accord, he had taken the little needles and slipped them into her wrists and gave her the blood. He'd stroked the soft fuzz on her head and he told her something that he had never told anyone else, ever. He'd stroked the gold and white that covered her suture scars and told her that he _loved_ her even as Alucard had covered her naked breasts with kisses.

Eventually, she had woken up, but it had not gone as planned. But no one had ever accused Walter of being a quitter.

Sir Hellsing insisted on daily reports on the health and welfare of his cousin, and always hid his disappointment well when Walter told him that she was fine, just fine.

"How is she going?" asked Sir Hellsing, waving Walter to the armchair across from his own.

"As well as might be expected," said Walter, sitting rather gingerly.

Sir Hellsing believed in 'connecting with employees' and 'being approachable'. Walter believed that Sir Hellsing's brains were just as addled as Integra's, but at least Integra had an excuse. Gone were the days of standing to attention, the big wooden desk between his commander and himself. Instead he took tea and had chats. Walter, in his heart of hearts, was an old-school conservative and all this touchy-feely bullshit made him want to spit. To make matters worse, Sir Hellsing would cheerfully tell anyone who listened that he was an atheist.

"So no further improvement, then? The neurosurgeons said that they'd never seen a recovery quite like hers before. I suppose hoping for a full return to the way she used to be would be a bit too much. We've already had our miracle."

"Sir," said Walter.

Sir Hellsing looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for further comment. None was forthcoming. "We've lost another carer, or so I've been told," he said eventually. "We just can't seem to keep them."

"Yes sir, I know."

"Alucard?"

"Alucard."

The vampire was an ongoing problem for Sir Hellsing.

"He doesn't seem to bother _you."_

"Well, no, sir, but he has known me for over fifty years. He's had a lot of time to get used to me."

"And you to him, I should imagine." Sir Hellsing gave Walter a tight-lipped smile. "Why, if I didn't know better I'd say you were friends. Well, as friendly as anyone can be with an insanely powerful insane monster."

Walter went to smile back and then thought better of it. Instead he said, "If I may hazard a guess, sir, I'd say it was because he knows that the care staff, to each and every one of their number, are unimaginative, dull, unsuperstitious and determinedly practical. They may present something of a challenge for him."

The younger man tapped his fingers on his knee, something he regularly did while he was thinking. An unconscious habit and one that Walter despised. He never could abide one who fidgeted. "Whatever his reasons we're running out of staff. We're being blacklisted at an alarming rate. Word does tend to get around about this sort of thing."

"Sir Hellsing, I am more than capable of providing Integra with all the care that she needs-"

"I've no doubt of your capabilities, Walter," interrupted Sir Hellsing. "But she is a handful for three people, let alone one." He held up his hand when Walter tried to speak. "For my own peace of mind, I've engaged a new carer: Chris Pickman, his name is. He was registered nurse before he joined the army. He was injured and unable to rejoin active service. As he'd proved reliable, he was retained to look after sensitive patients." He smiled. "He is used to unusual situations. I'm sure he'll cope admirably."

"I am quite certain that this is unnecessary, sir."

"Unnecessary or not, it's not your decision to make. He arrives at eight tomorrow morning. Right!" said Sir Hellsing cheerfully, changing the subject. "That's sorted. Now, one last thing. Why are you limping?"

"Sir?"

"You've been limping for the past two days. Your right foot isn't flexing the way it should."

"A slight touch of rheumatism, I'd say." Walter gave a self-depreciating smile. "I _am_ getting on a bit, you know."

"I know," Sir Hellsing said. "But I would like you to have it examined nevertheless. I want you to report to Doctor Trevallyn sometime tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But Integra has MRI scans tomorrow with the neurosurgeon. I can't possibly-"

"You can and you will," interrupted Hellsing a touch impatiently. "Pickman is arriving later this afternoon. He'll be able to look after her during that time."

"Yes, sir," said Walter through his teeth.

"Excellent! Well, that's that sorted then." Sir Hellsing reached over and grabbed a folder from the table next to him. He opened it, then looked up and frowned. "Why are you still- oh. That's right. Sorry. You can go. Dismissed."

"Sir."

Walter left.


	3. Samson: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "_My little June, you do not believe; you imagine hatred and cruelty where there is only fate. You punish yourself, you punish yourself for also having loved your father. You punish yourself by destroying the love you most wanted."_

"_My little June, you do not believe; you imagine hatred and cruelty where there is only fate. You punish yourself, you punish yourself for also having loved your father. You punish yourself by destroying the love you most wanted."_

-'Incest' by Anaïs Nin

The new carer was a good-looking man, and first impressions said that he was reasonably intelligent too. Unfortunately, there was something about the way he immediately started acting as though Walter was simultaneously a long-time hero and a brand-new best friend that made Walter want to feed him to Alucard. One small piece at a time, preferably.

He'd made an effort to be polite; he'd gone to meet the taxi as it pulled up at the servant's entrance. He'd smiled nicely at Pickman- tall, fit, and handsome in a toothpaste commercial kind of way- had shaken hands and greeted this young puppy who came bounding out of the back seat, grinning inanely and babbling about how much of an honour it was to be here at the Hellsing Organisation, to be able to serve in any manner possible. The puppy's training? Why, he'd been a proud member of Her Majesty's army before an unfortunate accident had rendered him unfit. But since he'd been a trained nurse before he'd joined, and he had already proven himself trustworthy, he'd been assigned to take care of a doddering old general- such a marvellous man, don't y'know?- who, in his dementia, had taken to babbling sensitive military secrets to all and sundry who wandered past. After this Pickman's discretion and his skill had become well known, and he had had a succession of patients from just about all branches of the British military, quite a few of which, strictly speaking, didn't exist to the public.

"Walter Dornez! I've heard so much about you!" the pup's face was stretched into an impossibly wide grin, showing teeth far too white and straight to be entirely natural. He lunged forward and sized Walter's hand in a textbook firm handshake and shook it vigorously. "Oh! You're wearing rings. One on each finger? Do they have some sort of sentimental value?"

"You might say that." Walter extracted his hand- he loathed being touched by anyone except Integra- and gestured the way, the younger man's luggage having already been whisked off to his new quarters.

"It's an honour and a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"I'm sure the pleasure's mine."

"Not at all, not at all. You're a World War Two veteran, right? Special Forces?"

"Indeed."

"An honour, sir, an honour to meet you. I've always admired our nation's heroes-"

Walter stumbled slightly, stepping on the puppy's foot. Purely by accident, of course.

"Oh, dear, how clumsy of me! I suppose I'm not as spry as I used to be! Have I injured you?"

"Not at all," said Pickman, hopping on one foot. "Just let me get my balance back."

"I'm_very_ sorry."

"Please don't worry about it," he said tightly. He scowled at Walter, who blinked at him innocently. "Well, where is the, ah, patient?"

"Just along here."

They came to Integra's suite. Walter opened the door and jumped back just in time to avoid the nurse as she came screaming out, complete with suitcases and an umbrella.

"This place is haunted by the devil! The devil, I tell you!" she howled, bolting up the corridor. "Tell the bastard _I quit!"_

"Oh dear," murmured Walter again. "I'm afraid that that doesn't make a good impression at all." He gestured politely. "After you," he said. Pickman gave him a doubtful expression and stepped inside.

Integra was sitting on the lounge, arms folded and pouting. "Warlter!" she said crossly. "Naughty!"

"Yes, yes," he soothed. "Nurse was very naughty to run off like that, wasn't it?"

"Nurse?" she shook her head. "Not nurse. Naughty! Bad dog!"

Walter bit his tongue to stop a smirk. Pickman took one look around the suite- comfortable lounges arranged in a semi circle, kitchenette, dining table and chairs, doors leading off to the bathroom and bedrooms for Integra and her minders, brightly coloured, durable toys scattered all around- and settled on Integra herself.

"And here's the lady!" he exclaimed, every inch of his body suffused and glowing with delight. "I'm Chris," he told her, and she nodded seriously. "May I sit next to you?" She shot a look at Walter that said, _can he? _Walter replied with a resigned shrug and Integra scooted to one side, leaving room for Pickman. "I've heard a lot about you," he said. "Did you know that your cousin has asked me to help Walter look after you?"

Integra smirked. "Can't get good help these days," she drawled in a perfect imitation of Walter.

Walter coughed. Pickman shot him the evil eye; the butler merely wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, the very picture of innocence.

"I'm here to be your friend as well, Integra. Would you like that, being friends? You have such pretty hair. I would like being friends with some who has pretty hair like that."

The puppy was not only smarmy; he was blind as well, decided Walter. Her hair had grown out since it was last shaved, but it was only a couple of inches long all over, a soft, disordered mess. Without the weight and length to subdue it, the cowlick in the centre of her forehead stood up violently, as did the white hair coming up from her suture scars. The whole effect was reminiscent of someone who had sat outside in a cyclone. It didn't make matters any better that she had developed a not-unreasonable phobia about people touching her scalp and would bite, kick, scratch or failing that, run like shit whenever anyone came near her with brush and comb. As Pickman discovered when he tried to tuck a stray lock back behind her ear.

_Thump!_– and Chris I-want-to-be-your-friend Pickman was sitting on the ground, clutching his bleeding nose as Integra flounced off in a huff.

Walter grabbed his arm, dragged him up to his feet and took him to the bathroom.

"Wha dib I do wonb?" asked Pickman plaintively as Walter, none too gently, scrubbed the blood off his face. Walter didn't answer.

"It's not broken," he said instead, curtly. "I suggest you ask permission before you touch her again," and he pinched the younger man's nostrils shut tighter than was strictly necessary.

"I'll remember dab," said Pickman, as Walter grabbed a clean handtowel, folded it neatly into a wad and handed it to him. He held it to his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. He smiled weakly as Walter glared at him. "So whab's da secret?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How dob youb convince her tob let youb brush her hair?"

Walter was quiet for a moment before he said grudgingly, "a cup of chocolate in the morning. A bowl of ice cream at night."

"Food. Ribe!" Without another word, Pickman marched out, still holding the towel to his face. Walter stared after him, bemused.

Pickman returned not a quarter of an hour later. He sported a bruised nose and a magnificent black eye, and a plastic shopping bag in one hand. Integra, curled up next to Walter on the lounge, watched suspiciously as he went straight into the kitchenette and started taking various brightly coloured packages from his bag and putting them in the freezer. He left two out and, without looking at either Walter or Integra, went to sit at the table. They watched him unwrap one of his little packets. An ice cream. Integra went, very, very still, watching Pickman intently. He took a bite, and chewed slowly. He swallowed, and sighed contentedly.

"Mmm," he said, "chocolate."

Integra mewed. Pickman looked up. "Oh, do you like ice cream?" She nodded vigorously. "Would you like one?"

And that was that.

Walter shook his head. "Young people today," he said under his breath as Integra got stuck in, smearing sticky goo all over her face. "No self-discipline, no moral fibre…"

"_Oh, don't be such an old stick in the mud," _said Alucard, breathing into his ear.

He rubbed his good eye tiredly.

"Are you all right?" asked Pickman solicitously.

"Yes," said Walter with a thin smile, "I'm fine. I have to go. I have an appointment."

"Yes, of course. Well, there's no need to worry. What time does Integra eat?"

"Now!" yelled Integra.

"Twelve," said Walter.

"Righto, I'll whip something up for her then."

"I'll be back in time for her bath."

"I can-" started Pickman, and stopped when he saw Walter's face.

"Food!" said Integra.

"I'll be back soon."

Integra leapt up and threw her arms around him. He held her very briefly, and said goodbye.

* * *

"Lay back, please."

The paper gown was uncomfortable, chilly and revealing.

"Arms by your sides and legs straight. This won't take a minute."

He was beginning to have a great deal of sympathy for Integra, going through this every fortnight. No wonder she always made such a fuss about it.

"I'm starting the scan now, Mr Dornez."

The table he was on whirred and clicked and slid into the machine. The little curved tunnel was sized and shaped in such a way that anyone wanting to get out on their own should have to squirm along on their shoulder blades, buttocks and heels, a process that would require time, patience and a certain tolerance for closed in spaces. Walter had an excellent head for heights but unfortunately that was countered by the slightest touch of claustrophobia. He was far too disciplined to panic, but even so he couldn't quite suppress the faint shudder running down his spine. The machine hummed and various lights brightened or darkened behind the opaque panels directly above his nose. Walter sighed and closed his eyes, tried not to notice the absence of his rings and waited for the doctor to speak.

"Mr Dornez, I have good news and bad news.

"The first is that you are in excellent shape. You would have to be one of the fittest people I have ever seen in the course of my career, regardless of your age or theirs. Your average twenty-year-old couldn't keep up with you. Your vascular system is excellent and your heart is extremely healthy. Your lungs are good although they could be slightly better when compared to the rest of your body. Didn't you say that you used to be a smoker? You gave it up at just the right time, I should think.

"There is a touch of arthritis in your knees and hands, specifically the joints of your fingers, but at this stage it is really not even worth the effort of medicating. Overall it is uncanny just how fit and healthy you are. Physically you seem to be a much younger man than you really are.

"But there is one thing.

"Mr Dornez, have you noticed any numbness or weakness down one side of your body? Dizziness or loss of balance? Confusion? Trouble talking or understanding speech? Headaches, nausea, trouble walking? Problems with your sight, even allowing for the stigmatism?

"The scans of your brain indicate that you have recently had a haemorrhagic stroke, that is, a rupture of a blood vessel, causing bleeding into your brain tissue. This rupture is only minor, but even allowing for your level of fitness it's very unlikely that you will completely recover from it. What _is_likely is that there are going to be some more small ruptures, more small bleeds, each adding too and compounding the damage that its predecessor left. Eventually it will lead up to a major stroke, one that, at best, will result in major paralysis and dementia, or at worst simply kill you. Even now with very minor damage you are already feeling its effects. The faintly discernible shaking in your hands. The way your left foot doesn't quite arch properly.

"Mr Dornez, I'm very sorry. But at your age, something like this is to be expected.

"People don't live forever."

Several weeks after the diagnosis, one of the grey suits paid a visit. "Walter? Sir Hellsing wants to see you."

* * *

Walter looked up from his seat on the floor. The grey suit was in the doorway, staring at him and Integra and the thing in between them with an expression very like horror.

"Haven't you ever seen a paper castle before?" Walter asked mildly.

"Castle," agreed Integra seriously, dabbing glue on a piece of tissue and sticking it to the hulking monstrosity in front of her. Grey suit cleared his throat.

"Not like this, no," he said. "Ah, Walter? You have some, um, glitter on your nose."

"Thank you," said Walter pleasantly. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. "Did that get it?"

"Uhm. No. Not really."

Walter got up and walked over to where a priceless antique mirror hung on the wall.

"Oh dear. I can't see Sir Hellsing like this."

"What happened?" asked Grey Suit.

"A craft lesson."

"Walter? Is it true that you once wiped out one hundred ghouls in five minutes?"

"Four minutes forty seconds, actually. Is anything the matter?"

"Glitter, sir," said Grey suit mournfully. "That's the matter. Glitter. It doesn't seem quite right, that's all. And so much of it, too."

Walter smiled. "I rather think it's becoming, don't you? The blue seems to bring out my eyes…"

"They called you The Angel of Death. Oh God. _Glitter."_

"It does seem to have gotten everywhere, hasn't it?

"I'll tell Sir Hellsing that you will be delayed, shall I? While you take a shower. Please?"

One hasty shower later, Walter came face-to-face with his nemesis. "Sir Hellsing? Are you well? You look rather haggard."

Sir Hellsing snarled. "Rats!" he spat.

Walter blinked. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Rats! Bloody vermin! Hundreds of the diseased little buggers, all swarming through my rooms last night! When I turned on all the lights they disappeared, and then ten minutes later I heard them in the attic! All night rats, rats, _rats_crashing about on my ceiling." He kicked at his armchair in disgust. "Rats! With their revolting little tails and twitching noses and…and…is that glitter on your nose?"

"Yes sir."

"Fine. Rats!" he roared. "Filthy vermin, I hate them! They're dirty and germ-carrying and…what do you mean, 'yes'?"

"Yes sir, this is glitter on my nose. I had a shower, but some of it refused to wash off."

"Glitter." With that the ire seemed to run out of Sir Hellsing and he dropped down into his armchair with a plop. "Why are you wearing glitter, Walter? Something you want to tell me?"

"Well, Integra and I were having a craft lesson today and-"

"So that's it. Never mind. _Sit."_

Walter sat.

"Now. Could you please tell me when was the last time this place was inspected by a vermin catcher? The last records we have are in the vicinity of nineteen hundred and ten."

"Ah…I believe that nineteen hundred and ten _was_the last time the mansion had a pest inspector of any sort through."

"Why?"

"Alucard is, as you know, the master of low creatures like rodents and insects. He seems to have a knack of keeping them away, even when he is locked away and his power contained."

"So why have we been invaded all of a sudden? And why specifically my bedro-" He stopped. "Alucard?"

"Alucard."

"He_summoned_ them. He summoned the filthy, wretched vermin!"

"I'd say it's a safe bet, sir."

"Right." Sir Hellsing scowled.

"Would you like me to have a word with him?"

"That will not be necessary," said Sir Hellsing coldly. "I'll do it."

Walter prepared to stand. "Is that all, sir?"

"No." Sir Hellsing took a deep breath. "There is something else. Please make yourself comfortable, Walter. This won't take a minute. It's about your recent medical test…"

* * *

Afterwards, Walter felt slow, stunned, languid, as if he had taken some blow to the head that had not hurt him but had nevertheless muddled his senses. He wandered down to the kitchen in a daze, thinking to find some quiet corner to sit and watch without participation on his part.

The staff was preparing the midday meal and without a word he was lead to a chair near the wall by the cook herself, a most excellent lady he'd known for over twenty years. A cup of tea, black the way he liked, was pushed into his hands by a mousy little thing that looked at him curiously for a few seconds before scurrying off again.

He drank his tea. It was strong enough to etch sheet metal but he didn't taste it. He felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing but the words echoing around and around his head.

"_Give them to me. They are not yours to keep." _

Then his own voice, speaking in tones as close to begging as he'd ever come to in his life.

"_More time. Just a little more time. Please, please, just a little more. Please."_

On the outside he seemed nothing more than a little thoughtful, a little distracted. But with the words in his head came the image of what he had seen that morning, Integra laughing happily as she played with Pickman, utter joy and trust on her face as he played at being the puppy he was. He had lunged forward and caught her fingers in his mouth as Walter watched, and Integra had squealed in delight.

Walter's mouth filled with blood as he bit his tongue to stop himself from howling at the moon like a madman.


	4. Samson: III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have never disdained the house of memory, wherein wait such surprises as a row of pointed windows reflecting the sea, a mossy stone fist serving as a corbel, a broad-backed old woman plunging a hand into a wicker basket full of yellow apples, the sound of a loud, deep bell. Renown was won in the gutters of mourning and at noon, love turned into a tiger._

_I have never disdained the house of memory, wherein wait such surprises as a row of pointed windows reflecting the sea, a mossy stone fist serving as a corbel, a broad-backed old woman plunging a hand into a wicker basket full of yellow apples, the sound of a loud, deep bell. Renown was won in the gutters of mourning and at noon, love turned into a tiger._

-'The Etched City' by K.J. Bishop

It was dark, but then it was always dark down here. Alucard was expecting him, of course, sitting in his great wooden chair that Walter had always thought of as a throne. He was holding a bag of donated blood in his hands, tearing the plastic with his teeth. Red ran down his gloves and chin and he licked and licked with his eyes half-closed in pleasure.

"I'm guessing that," Walter indicated the mess that Alucard was making, "is by way of the courtesy of Sir Hellsing?"

"However did you guess?" purred Alucard, running his tongue along a seam.

"You always make a proper pig of yourself when fed your master's blood."

"Mmm," sighed the vampire in pleasure. There was blood smeared all over his face. Walter was reminded of an occasion he'd been in South Africa. In a rare piece of free time he'd gone to one of the innumerable game parks, and there had watched a lioness making a meal out of an antelope. She'd ripped the carcass to pieces slowly, licking the meat and savouring it like a child with a lolly. Blood had soaked her fur from her eyes to the tips of her paws. Same leisurely sensuality, same deadly grace. Same table manners, not to put too fine a point on it.

Walter's mouth twisted, and in his mind the meat between the lioness' paws was replaced by the current Sir Hellsing, his dead eyes and not the antelope's staring at the world in mute accusation. It was a satisfying image and one that Walter meditated upon at length.

Something cold brushed his mouth, leaving a sticky residue on his mouth. He tasted copper and salt.

"I thought you might appreciate it."

"A recent fantasy of mine," agreed Walter, discretely dabbing his lips with his handkerchief.

Beside Alucard's rough chair there was an equally rough wooden table, with dusty wineglasses and an equally dusty bottle of wine. Walter took a glass from there and played with it idly, rolling it back and forth in his hands.

A chair suddenly careened out of the shadows, to nudge at the back of Walter's knees. He sat. The wine bottle drifted into the air, uncorked itself and poured into Walter's wineglass.

"I'm not going to ask where you got this," he said. "If I were still a butler here I'd have to take you outside and stake you to the ground and wait for the sun to rise."

"Then that's just as well, isn't it?"

They drank. Walter felt his heart flutter in his chest, and heard the doctor's voice in his head: _You must not drink, Mr Dornez, must not drink at all, it will have certain adverse reactions to your medications, Mr Dornez, I'm afraid you must abstain from now on…_ He swallowed with a great deal of pleasure and twirled the empty glass between his fingers. He had never been much of a drinker, but as soon as he'd heard those words he had wanted nothing so much as a large glass of rum.

"It didn't work," he said abruptly.

"It worked," replied Alucard. "She moves. She speaks. She thinks."

"She lurches. She babbles baby talk. She has the thought-processes of a three year old."

The vampire blinked slowly.

"We underestimated the extent of the damage. I knew that as soon as my blood mixed with hers. It has repaired the gross damage, but it hasn't been as effective on the more subtle areas of the brain. It'll take time…."

"How long?"

Alucard said nothing.

"How long will it take, Alucard? How long will it be before Integra is the way she should be?"

"If I must hazard a guess…" He threw empty plastic aside and pulled another bag of blood from his coat pocket. "If I must guess, I'd say thirty to forty years.

"That's too long," snapped Walter.

"It cannot be helped," replied Alucard with just the faintest hint of temper.

"She hasn't got that long!"

"I beg to differ. Integra, in this day and age, could well expect to live to one hundred." His eyes glazed over. "She'll be amazingly beautiful by then. "

"I am not here to talk about your gerontophilia."

"Quite right. You are here to talk about your fear of dying," the vampire replied affably.

There as a cracking noise and a sharp pain in his fingers, and Walter looked down to discover that he'd snapped the stem of the wineglass. Alucard leaned forward, watching intently as Walter threw the pieces aside for the cleaning staff. He stripped off his gloves and used his teeth to tug a shard of glass out of his thumb. Blood welled up in the cut, thick and dark and sluggish.

"I am not afraid to die," said Walter calmly. "I am afraid for Integra. She cannot look after herself. She cannot carry out her duty to Hellsing." A single drop of blood fell to the floor. The shadows brushed over it and it disappeared. Walter licked the remaining red from his hand. Alucard licked his fangs. "After all this time you still have no control over yourself."

"Of course not. I'm a vampire."

"Would more blood hasten the process?"

"No. Any more and she will become nosferatu." Alucard sighed and relaxed back into his chair. "Even then she certainly wouldn't be able to look after herself."

"I would never allow her to become subordinate to _you,"_ said the old man coldly.

"I know."

They sat in silence for a while, two old friends, two old sphinxes crouched familiarly together in the dark. Alucard continued his meal without an attempt to check his appalling table manners. Finally Alucard said, "There's something I've been meaning to ask you," and at the same time he gave the sparkling clean plastic one last loving swipe with his tongue an ancient paperback book appeared in midair and landed in Walter's lap. He picked it up; _Alice in Wonderland_ advertised the cover, and when he opened it Integra's name was written in childish script on the yellowing title page, and the date she had done so. She'd been nine years old. The pages ruffled themselves, giving Walter glimpses of her handwriting all through the book.

Integra had acquired a habit very early in her life, one that she'd never broken: that of writing in books. There were only a handful of volumes in the entire mansion that had escaped being annotated with comments and criticisms, and the books in question were the oldest and most valuable of the entire substantial collection. Even then he suspected that it had more to do with the difficulty of writing on fragile paper rather than any actual reverence for the books themselves.

Finally, the pages settled, and Walter noted a passage that had been circled heavily in pencil and surrounded by question marks:

"_Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.  
_

_Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked.  
_

"_There isn't any," said the March Hare.  
_

"_Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily.  
_

"_It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare.  
_

"_I didn't know it was YOUR table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three."  
_

"_Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.  
_

"_You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude."  
_

_The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he SAID was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"_

Beneath it were the letters, _WTF?_ And underneath that, in slightly smaller and more mature handwriting was a single underlined word: _Poe._

"So why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?" asked Alucard, idly sucking on his gloves.

"Well, the clever answer to that is that Edgar Allen Poe wrote upon both," replied Walter, absently stroking the page with his thumb. "But practically speaking, there isn't meant to be an answer. It is nonsense. A deliberately absurd question."

"The point being?"

"The point is that it is absurd and there is no answer." He hesitated. "Or so I believe. I am not a scholar of Lewis Carroll."

"Ah."

"Where did you get this?"

"I was bored. There was a trunk in the attic with Integra's smell so I opened it. It was filled with books and toys. From her early childhood, I presume. It had been there a long time."

"Which attic?"

"The centre one."

Walter smirked. "That was you last night, making the racket? Sir Hellsing thought you were a rat thundering about above his head. He demanded to know when we last had the mansion checked for vermin. It seems he has something of a phobia."

"Yes," said Alucard smugly, inspecting his clean white gloves. "I know."

"The director of Hellsing, afraid of rodents. Hah!"

The vampire merely smiled. "I must admit, I'm becoming quite fond of him. I thought that he would thank me for curing this fear of his so I sent some of my familiars over to keep him company for the night, to see if close proximity would do the trick. Strangely enough he was quite upset about it."

Walter smiled faintly in return, remembering the man's barely disguised panic. Then he remembered what had he had been told afterwards and he heard the words echo in his head: "_Give them to me. They are not yours to keep_." Walter gritted his teeth and shuddered. "Coward," the bitter word slipped past his lips before he even realised he'd said it.

Alucard stopped smiling. "Be wise, Walter. You are my friend, but for all of his faults he is my master and I must obey him. I will not permit any insult towards him."

"You're falling in love with him, aren't you?"

"It is the way I am programmed. You know that as well as I." Alucard shifted slowly in his seat, crossing his legs with an oddly feminine gesture. "He is learning quickly. It is my belief that, given several years of training, he will make a fine master."

"If you don't drive him insane first."

"That is also my nature," said the vampire calmly.

"Treacherous creature."

"Yes."

Suddenly the old man blurted out, "he wants me to give him my rings."

Alucard blinked slowly. "I see."

Walter closed his eyes. "My rings, Alucard. My wires. He expects them to hand them over like… like an old service revolver." He put his hands to his face, feeling the ten warm bands press comfortingly into his flesh. "He said that they weren't mine to begin with. There isn't a human in the world that can use them the way I can, even as I am now, even with this cursed shaking. And yet, despite that, the over bred …_boy_…won't even wait until I am dead before stripping them off my corpse." Walter took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. In the back of his mind there was the whisper that if he pushed Alucard far enough the vampire would be provoked into attacking and he could die as he had lived: fighting the undead, an honourable death with its own kind of blood-red dignity. But he knew that he didn't have that luxury. Integra needed him and he could not abandon her. "I'm going to the attic. There may be something she'd like in that box you mentioned."

"Near the far left window. A red trunk beside some oil paintings."

"Thank you, Alucard."

Walter stood and walked to the door, but when he reached it he stopped.

"It's my belief," he said slowly, "that Sir Hellsing also has an uncommon…fondness for snakes."

"I shall keep that in mind," Alucard assured him gravely.

Walter left. He didn't need to turn around to know that like the little girl talking to the Cheshire Cat in _Alice in Wonderland,_ the only thing he'd see was a sharp toothed smile floating by itself in the darkness. As he walked thought the door, shutting it carefully behind him, he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and pressed the bloodstains to his lips. It was a small indulgence, but one that pleased him greatly.

* * *

The attic was the thing of dreams for film makers and children exploring on rainy days, filled with a hundred years worth of things too unneeded to keep and too precious to throw away. Walter climbed the ladder and found himself in a long, dim room, crowded with shadowy monsters and looming giants. After a few seconds his groping hand encountered a dangling cord, and a sharp tug filled the place with yellow light. Monsters became sheet-covered furniture and giants became large crates and boxes.

Fortunately, dusty and neglected at the place may have been, the servants of any decade had always been too well disciplined to allow the place to fall into complete chaos. The place was organised by simple chronological order, that is, the date the object in question arrived in the attic and so everything was in a basic timeline according to the dates scrawled on tags and labels. Following those Walter quickly came to the trunk Alucard had spoken off, the dust around it brushed aside so that the floor was clean. It was unlocked and Walter opened it, and the date on the lid said that Integra had put it away very soon after becoming family head.

For a rich girl Integra had had comparatively few possessions, mainly because she _was_ a rich girl and everything a girl could want had already belonged to the family. She had had more hand-me-downs than anything else. The trunk was filled mainly with treasured gifts and keepsakes and books too worn or too childish to go in the library. He picked up an aging paperback. The cover was torn and when he tried to flip through it the pages simply dissolved into yellow dust. Brightly coloured plastic horses with patterns printed on their flanks smiled cutely at nothing. Walter found them vaguely disturbing. He rather thought that horses who were smiling were horses who were planning something, but then, he'd never been good with animals and the only thing he'd ever really had to do with horses was eat them.

He moved some worn clothes aside, and was startled to come across something he recognised. A tired, worn old stuffed rabbit with blue fur, red plastic eyes and a woeful expression peered mournfully up from where it was crushed by more books.

"I remember you," he murmured.

Cue flashback.

_He knew that Arthur's daughter had been born, and that, for reasons Arthur declined to explain, her mother had died soon after. He knew that the child was some months old but Arthur was astonishingly protective of the baby and so she'd been firmly locked away with a trusted nanny or two for pretty much all of her short life. Close as Walter was to Arthur, he'd only seen Arthur's daughter twice, first when she was christened, and then only from a distance. He'd received only a vague impression of coffee-cream skin and pale hair before her minders had whisked her away again and he had more-or-less forgotten about her until her father had brought her into the office once while she was teething. _

_So Walter was quite astonished when late one night, clearing away the remnants of yet another small drama- Arthur and everyone else had already gone to bed- he'd stepped out of the office and observed a small child with a lot of blonde hair sticking up in spikes toddling determinedly down the corridor towards him. She wore a nappy, a horribly cheerful pink singlet (it didn't suit her) and an expression he'd seen often on her father's face when he was feeling particularly pig-headed. She dragged a blue stuffed toy rabbit with a woeful expression by its ears. Walter had blinked at this miniature human as she'd come to a stop just in front of him. He'd crouched down on his heels and tried for a friendly smile and that bright, condescending tone he'd heard people use towards small children. _

"_Hello," he'd said. "Should you be here? Where are your nannies?" _

_The child had glared at him as though she found him extremely wanting, and then had thrust the rabbit under his nose. "Giggi!" she said forcefully._

"_Giggi?"_

"_Giggi!" She said again, giving it a shake. At a loss he had taken it and looked at it. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it, so he wondered what the point of showing to him was. He tried a guess._

"_It's ah, very nice?" he said hopefully _

"_Yes," said the little girl, and snatched it back._

"_What's your name?" he asked, although he had already known._

"_Tegra," she replied._

"_Hello, Integral," he said, "Do you know that you have the bluest eyes of anybody I have ever met? My name is Walter."_

"_Wolta?"_

"_Close enough," he sighed. He held out his hand. Integra took his forefinger and shook it solemnly. "Nice to meet you."_

"_Where's Daddy?"_

"_Your father is in bed. You should be too." He had stood up and Integra stretched out her arms to him, the woeful blue rabbit dangling from her hand. It had taken him several seconds to figure out what she wanted. Finally, he bent down to gingerly pick her up. He'd never been clumsy in his life but he was suddenly stricken with the odd terror that he would either drop her or crush her. Integra, for her part, had wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and tucked her head under his chin. It was the first time he'd ever held a child of any age, and despite how nerve-racking the experience was, he was also surprised to find that it was also somewhat…pleasant. She smelled sweet, like vanilla lollies. _

"_Let's put you back to bed, shall we?"_

_Apparently that hadn't been what she wanted to hear, and she had smacked him over the head with the rabbit to illustrate this point._

"_Daddy!" She said firmly._

"_Your daddy is asleep."_

"_Want Daddy!" _

"_Fine, fine," sighed Walter. He was tired and it was late and he couldn't be bothered arguing. "I wouldn't be surprised to find you as the next Head of Hellsing, you know. You certainly have what it takes to give orders."_

"_Hellsing? Wot's dat?" she asked, craning her neck to look at his face._

_Walter had laughed. "It's your heritage, my girl."_

_They didn't get very far before they were met by a panicking Arthur and a cloud of panicking attendants racing in the opposite direction. Arthur's expression when he saw The Angel of Death holding his only child and the way he snatched the girl out of Walter's arms was something Walter would never forgive nor forget._

_He had waited patiently during the reunion between father and daughter, and then through the tedious process of palming the child off to her nannies, along with vaguely ominous requests to please report to Sir Hellsing for a 'talk' the next day. Finally Arthur and the butler were left alone in the corridor, and Walter was quietly pleased to note that Arthur looked rather ashamed of his reaction. _

"_I would give my life for her," said Walter pleasantly. "I would kill for her."_

"_Yes," Arthur had said grimly. "That's the problem."_

It had taken Walter a decade to understand what Arthur had meant, and it was obvious to everyone during that time that Integra was being groomed to succeed Arthur as Organisation Head. Everyone, that is, except Richard Hellsing who frankly had never been all that quick on the uptake. He had watched Integra grow; soon after the night she escaped her father had admitted that he couldn't keep her confined to her room forever, and so her nannies began to take her for short excursions here and there. Despite Arthur's reservations Walter was the best bodyguard Integra could ever have and so he often ended up quietly following in the wake of child and minders. For some strange reason Integra had taken a liking to him. He became used to feeling something heavy suddenly strike his leg and wrap itself around the limb like an octopus, and then looking down to see brilliant blue eyes above a beaming smile. After she turned five she became more dignified and a lot more reserved, and she stopped throwing her arms around him every time she saw him. But she still had that beautiful smile, and it was only after Richard tried to kill her, only after Alucard had ripped the fool to pieces on her behalf, only after she had stopped smiling like that he had finally understood why Arthur had had that expression on his face.

He sighed.

There were only a few books in the trunk that she might like and he couldn't recall being in the library, and she had all the plastic toys that she needed. In the end he picked out those books, the stuffed rabbit, and the least garish of the smiling horses. He didn't see the point in dragging the whole trunk downstairs with him.

As he stood he felt his head swim suddenly and violently. He grabbed hold of the nearest crate and hanged tight until the moment passed. Served him right for lollygagging so late, up here in the dust and dim light.

* * *

He woke to the sound of his alarm clock, shrill and piercing and punching through his skull like a stiletto. The pain in his head was excruciating and when he tried to open his eyes the impossibly brilliant light trigged waves of nausea. Gritting his teeth to hold back the retches, he flailed blindly at the source of the noise, but some clever bastard had attached leaden weights to his limbs while he was sleeping and his arms didn't respond the way they should have. The shrieking went on and on, each note flashing silver and razor sharp. He groped for the clock, to turn it off or simply destroy it, but his arm just wouldn't do what he wanted it to do.

Abruptly the sound ceased. The weight on his limbs intensified, pressing him down into the bed until he relaxed. As he sank back into the dark he felt something tugging at his fingers, one by one.


	5. Sound of Spiders Weeping: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "_It seems you're inching unner, sir, inching slowly unner_

"_It seems you're inching unner, sir, inching slowly unner_

_But what it is you're inching in, ah cannot help but wonder."_

_O booming voice up in the clouds, to speak cuts like a knife_

_Ah'm simply inching into Death, while inching out of Life._

"_You're wrong, you poor deluded boy, True Death's up here with Me_

_Hell's dungeons boil below you, child, Eternal Agony!"_

_O climb down off your crap-hill, O fiend hid in the sky_

_You're Lucifer! The Great Deceiver! Your word is but a lie!_

_You will not fool me anymore with your wrath and rolling thunder_

'_Tis God that stands behind mah wheel and inches me now unner._

_The bog it yawned and pulled me down, mah body trussed in chains_

_And Satan sighed and shook his head, played harp amongst the flames._

"_It's Hell up there in Heaven too, for all that it is worth._

_Heaven is just a lie of mine to make it Hell on Earth."_

-'And the Ass Saw the Angel' by Nick Cave

"Wake up, Mr Dornez. Wake. Wake up. Mr Dornez, it is time to wake up."

There was a voice in the distance, murmuring words he couldn't understand.

"Wake up, Mr Dornez."

Gradually the garbled syllables began to rearrange themselves. One by one he strung them onto the thin thread of coherency.

"It is time to wake. Wake up, Mr Dornez."

He recognised that word. It was a name. His name.

"Wake up. It is time to wake up."

Only one person in the world called him by his last name. To everyone else he was either Walter or The Angel of Death.

"Doctor Trevallyn," he rasped, opening his eyes. The doctor's face hovered over him.

"You have had another stroke," said Trevallyn, speaking slowly and clearly. "Do you remember any sudden headaches or dizziness before you went to sleep?"

"What time is it?"

"One o'clock in the afternoon."

"Date?"

"The twenty-fifth. You haven't been out all that long. Only ten or fifteen hours. It seems Cook is keeping an eye on you. She noticed very quickly that you weren't at breakfast."

"I was dizzy last night," said Walter. His hands were shaking badly, and his rings weren't on his fingers. He never took the rings off, not even to bathe and he felt an immediate cold rush of panic. Then a metallic gleam out of the corner of his good eye caught his attention (without a lens his bad one tended to droop closed of its own accord) and he saw his rings sitting stacked in a neat pyramid on his bedside, beside his dead alarm clock. The cord was severed. It looked chewed, and there were burn marks on the plastic.

Trevallyn was busy fussing, tapping Walter's knuckles with a rubber mallet, shining a torch in both his eyes, and poking at his bare chest with a stethoscope.

"Can you stand?"

The doctor helped Walter out of bed and onto his feet. He swayed a little but he didn't fall, and Trevallyn grudgingly told him to sit back down again.

"Good grief, you even starch your pyjamas?" Trevallyn hitched up his patient's pant legs to fondle his knees. Walter pretended he didn't hear that.

After some poking and prodding and rather invasive touching, Trevallyn stood and coiled his stethoscope into his coat pocket.

"Right," he said. "Without a doubt you've had another stroke and I'm certain it's only fairly minor, but I want to run some tests to make sure. I'll help you dress and then we'll go down to the infirmary."

Walter was somewhat put out. "I don't need help to get dressed."

"Christ deliver me from proud soldiers," sighed Trevallyn, with a first class roll of his eyes. "Fine. Tell me what's where so I can give you all the help you_ don't_ need."

* * *

Several hours later, Walter was back in his own rooms at last with Trevallyn's stern admonishment still ringing in his ears: _"Complete bed rest or else I'll send Sir Hellsing to tie you down!" _It was, as the good doctor had said, only a minor stroke. The shaking in his hands would soon ease and the limp in his left leg would eventually smooth itself out, but neither would ever go entirely. Walter didn't want to think about it. It was bad enough that, for the time being, he could only get out of bed to perform his abolitions, that a railing had been installed in his shower and that he was being fed from a tray. Even worse, he couldn't seem to wear his monocle properly and he had had to swap it for a pair of glasses. All this and he was about to have an entirely new experience: Integra was about to visit him in his own room.

There was a loud thump in the hallway outside, followed by a burst of excited chattering. Speak of the devil. Walter rearranged the pillows he was propped up on and readjusted his pyjama cuffs. He usually preferred to wear only pants to bed, but it would be improper for Integra to see him half-dressed.

She came crashing through the door with all of the grace and subtlety of a stampeding buffalo, barely hesitating before she leapt straight on top of him. The breath left his lungs in a great whoosh and as Integra straddled him yelling, "Warlter, Warlter, Warlter!" he reflected that it was a good thing he was already in bed. She could have done him some serious injury otherwise.

That worthless puppy Pickman followed in her wake, babbling apologies. Walter ignored him.

"Have you been good?"

Integra nodded. She held up a familiar blue rabbit. "Look!" she said, waving it in his face. It seemed, Walter noted, quite depressed over this treatment. "Look! Look, look!"

"I'm looking, Integra," he said gently. "It's very nice."

Evidently she was in a mood to share because she then tucked the toy into bed beside him. He thought he heard Pickman snicker, but when Walter turned to give him the evil eye the man's face was expressionless.

Next Integra held up a battered paperback book. "Read!" she commanded, shoving it into his hand.

So he did. She curled up next to him on the bed, hugging him tightly. Eventually she went to sleep, and he allowed himself the luxury of stroking her hair. For once Pickman had the wits to keep his mouth shut and simply held himself quiet, and Walter felt the smallest sliver of gratitude.

* * *

Later, much, much later in the silent dark, Walter dreamed.

Her hair was a rusty sort of brown, her lips were painted bright red. Her eyes were blue and down the back of her calves she'd drawn a line with eyeliner pencil, to make it look as if she was wearing stockings which she did not own. She was sixteen, he was fourteen, both of them forced by the war to grow up much too fast. She was his date. His first and his last.

_They had gone to see a movie, and during the newsreel it was all Walter could do to stop himself from laughing; old news, fake news, it may have been news but it certainly wasn't new to him. _

_After the movie they had gone to a dance, run by the local Christian Women's Organisation. She was a pious little thing and so was he. Her friends had fused over him- such hair, such skin, so pretty!- and he hadn't minded at all. His girl was proud to have such a handsome date, and for his part, he was delighted to feel the skirts of her best dress brushing gently across his knees as they danced. He was, of course, an excellent dancer._

_After the dance they got into the truck that Walter had borrowed (without permission, it had to be said) and drove to the lookout so they could see the lights of the city. _

_The air raid sirens started to scream. The lights blinked off, one by one. His girl had shuddered and moved closer to him, huddling for comfort._

_He was fourteen, but he'd been around soldiers for a very long time. He was fourteen, he knew what men and women did. He was fourteen, he put his arms around her and they kissed. When he squeezed her shoulders she moaned. When he touched her knee she squirmed. When he touched her breast she stiffened and pushed his hands away because she was a good Christian girl and in those days, good Christian girls didn't do those sorts of things._

_He grabbed her wrists, and pinned them above her head. He slapped her when she protested, and from his pocket he pulled a little knife. _

_he put the knife at her throat she screamed he cut her he slapped her he tore her pretty dress he tied her down he cut her with his wires he raped her and it was so good so good he wanted to do it again but she was bleeding she was dead it was so good he tasted her blood and wanted to do it some more her eyes were blue like integra's eyes integra's eyes integra's blue eyes staring it was so good he raped her he cut her and it felt so good and integra's eyes were staring at him and he'd killed her _

He woke up screaming.

"_That was not how it was!" _he shrieked at the empty room. He shook, his hair falling in his eyes, his heart pounding. "That wasn't what happened," he whispered, burying his face in his hands. "Arthur, I need you."

Walter got out of bed and padded into his little ensuite. He used the toilet and as he was washing his hands he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The face there was unfamiliar. He had worn it all of his life and he'd never gotten used to it. It was the face of an ordinary human being, and Walter knew very well that he wasn't ordinary, by any stretch of the imagination. Whenever he saw his reflection it was always with a little shock about how normal it seemed.

He shuddered, and limped to the window. The lawns and gardens were filled with an eerie, low-lying fog, and the moon gleaming off of it made it seem like he was flying in the clouds. When he leant his forehead against the glass the cold burned.

There was a soft scuffle in the hallway, a polite-sounding knock, and the door opened.

"Walter," said Pickman quietly. "Are you awake? I don't want to alarm you, but Integra's gone missing…"

Walter sighed. "I see her now," he said softly. "She's fine."

He heard Pickman murmuring something, and then the door opened all the way and the younger man slipped into position behind him.

"Where? Oh…"

Alucard and Integra were dancing in the moonlight, their coats swaying with the movement of their bodies, making it seem as though they were wearing cloaks and ball gowns. Alucard had the softest expression as he looked down at her and she threw back her hair and smiled at the sky. In time to a silent waltz they spun once, twice, with a grace that made Walter's heart feel like it was breaking.

"How beautiful," said Pickman softly.

Walter shivered as the mist wrapped itself around the dancers and they disappeared from view, and he closed his eyes as Pickman began to stare at the silvered scars that covered his torso in morbid fascination.

"Go to back bed," the old man said. "He'll bring her back when she's ready."

Pickman cleared his throat. "He said he'd kill me. He said he'd kill me if I…you know…"

"I would believe him, if I were you."

"But I'd never do something like that. I mean, the whole idea is foul. I'm not a monster."

"Then I would think that you are in very bad company, Mr Pickman," rasped Walter. "Go to back to your bed. This doesn't concern you."

For once the pup did as he was told. He left without another word and shut the door behind him. Walter stayed at the window, watching as swift-moving shadows crept through the mist, waiting for their master.

* * *

Truthfully, it wasn't so bad.

The sunshine came in through the windows, accompanied by a stiff wind that carried with it the scents of autumn. The exercises that Doctor Trevallyn had given him were easy, if boring and repetitive. For once Walter was completely alone in the small gymnasium, without even the spectre of Alucard (sound asleep at this time of day) to disturb him. He could hear Integra laughing on the lawn outside as she played with Pickman, and the voice of the latest nursemaid encouraging her. He quite liked this helper; he wondered if Alucard would let her stay. He would have to have a word with the vampire later, see if he could persuade him. Nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that.

Walter reached out and flicked the little switch on the control panel of the exercise bike he was riding and felt the pedals correspondingly grow heavier. He leaned forward and pressed harder, enjoying the dull burn that began to form in his calves and the sides of his thighs. He had always enjoyed pushing his body as far as it could go and then some, which, one had to admit, was quite a distance.

It had been several weeks since his last stroke and he had done everything he could possibly do to render himself fit to look after Integra again. He had followed the good doctor's orders to the last word; he had rested for as long as he could stand- he had never been able to abide being idle- and then had gradually built up to this present level. It had helped that Walter had been extraordinarily fit and frighteningly well coordinated to begin with. His walk was as smooth and as even as ever, aside from the rare occasions when he was tired and he let his foot drag, just a little. He'd even managed to subdue the shaking in his hands down to the point an observer couldn't even see it. Sir Hellsing, on one of his polite, fleeting visits, had remarked that there appeared to be no reason to justify taking Walter's rings at that time. The old man had been delighted, although Sir Hellsing had looked very much like he'd wanted to hack up a fur ball.

Sometimes a background like Walter's could be a severe hindrance and a problem when it can to the everyday, ordinary interactions and disappointments of life, but at other times it afforded an advantage that only a few people could even hope to glimpse.

Speaking of what was ordinary and what wasn't….

He turned off the electric bicycle and wandered over to the window, grabbing his towel on the way there. He shook his hair out from his ponytail, and leaned on the windowsill and wiped the sweat away from his face and scalp. Below him on the lawn, Integra and Pickman played a complicated game involving a large and brightly coloured ball, a lot of running and a fair amount of shouting. The lawn was a small private one, enclosed by high gardens and overlooked by a limited number of windows. Allowing any of the old personnel to see Integra as she was now had proved extremely bad for morale, as she had inspired near fanatical devotion from her staff and her soldiers when she was still head of Hellsing. Following her maiming it had become clear that many of them blamed him for allowing it to happen. He hadn't been able to disagree and had willingly relinquished his duties as a member of the Hellsing Organisation and confined himself to her care. He had since come to regret that decision for many, many reasons.

Walter ran his fingers through his hair, separating the strands and combing them thoroughly. He watched as Integra, giggling, ran after the ball and snatched it away from the nurse. She turned to Pickman and threw it at him, but she threw it too hard and off-centre. It flew straight over his head and Pickman leapt up, somehow twisted in midair and caught it. Walter frowned. Much of his career as a killer had been spent studying the way humans, and things that weren't human, moved. Pickman moved like a human, but he was slightly too fast and definitely too agile. There was also no sign of the supposed injury that he'd claimed rendered him unfit for active service in the military. Not for the first time, the old butler wondered just who- and what- this strange puppy was, and more to the point, what was he doing hanging around Walter's baby girl?

Integra suddenly rushed up to Pickman and hugged him tightly. He, in turn, held her gently, smoothing her hair and murmuring in her ear. He looked up and saw Walter at the window. He waved, but the old man didn't respond. Integra buried her face in Pickman's chest and her hands moved restlessly over his back.

* * *

That night, while Pickman and the nurse cooked dinner in the little kitchenette, Walter set out the children's books on the table and called Integra over.

Reluctantly she came, dragging her feet and biting her lip. She pulled at the hem of her t-shirt and scrunched it up in her hands. She looked longingly over her shoulder at Pickman.

"Come here now, Integra," said Walter firmly. "You can eat after we're done."

Pulling out a chair she sat with her feet up on the seat and resting her chin on her knees. It was obvious that she didn't want to be there. She tugged on her hair and her eyes kept darting away from his.

Walter opened _The Child's First Alphabet _and gently took her hand, tracing her fingers over the capital A.

"'A,'" he said, "'is for apple.'"

She ignored him, and with her other hand she beat an impatient tattoo on her knees.

'"A is for apple.'" He squeezed her wrist. "Integra, look at me. Look. Look at me." Unwillingly, her gaze slid to his face, rapidly moving from his ears to his nose to his mouth, over and over. "Say it. 'A is for apple. Say it with me. 'A is for…'"

"Apple," she said at last.

"There's a good lass."

She sighed and began to drum her fingers on the table.

Walter turned the page.

"'B is for ball.' With me: 'B is for…'"

"B…b…" stammered Integra. She scowled, and bewilderment ran across her lovely eyes.

"'Ball.'"

"B…b…"

"'B-all,'" said Walter.

"B…b…" and then suddenly her face turned ugly. _"Blood!"_She shrieked.

Walter started as a plate smashed in the kitchenette. Then Integra flung her arm out. It connected with his cheek and he rolled with the blow, off the chair and into a crouch. Integra began screaming. She seized _The Child's First Alphabet _and tore it to pieces.

"_Blood! Blood! Bloodbloodblood!"_

Pickman and the nurse came rushing out of the kitchen. Integra grabbed a chair and swung it, knocking the nurse clean across the room and into the wall. She hit the plasterboard with a hollow thud, and slid down it until she ended up on her backside, blinking stupidly. Red began to trickle down the side of her face.

"Integra!" said Pickman.

He ducked to avoid the chair and stumbled into Walter, who pushed him away, straight into Integra's next swing. There was an audible crunch and he fell backwards, clutching his nose as blood and tears streamed down his face. Integra threw the chair on top of him, then she snatched another and went for Walter. He was expecting her. One flick of his hand and the chair fell to pieces. She looked around frantically.

"_Blood!_Gone! Gone!" He kicked the wreckage aside and roughly pulled her into his arms. "All gone! Blood. Empty. Empty. _Wrong._" She hid her face in his chest and began to cry.

Walter cupped the back of her neck, gripping hard. He took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth. He pressed a hard kiss onto her palm, then another, and another. Over and over he branded his triumph and fierce joy onto her skin because here, at last, was a breakthrough.

Eventually she cried herself into a fitful doze. Pickman, a bloody towel pressed to his nose, tried to speak to the nurse. He rang the infirmary as Walter pulled back the quilt on Integra's bed and settled her into it. He stroked the hair from her eyes as she squirmed.

"You did well," he whispered. "I'm so proud of you."

She muttered something in her sleep and kicked at the heavy bedcovers. He smiled at the scowl that still twisted her face.

"Walter!" yelled Pickman from the main room. "Eye needa 'and 'ere!"

"You're coming back to me, aren't you? One little step at a time. When you wake up I'll have a present for you." He touched her mouth and left.

Pickman was trying to get the nurse to stand up, without much success. The woman was small, but plump, and too heavy for him to lift one handed. He held a blood-soaked tea towel to his face, and whenever he tried to take it away blood dripped everywhere. Most unsanitary. Between Pickman's nose and the nurse's head wound the lovely cream carpet was an utter mess.

Walter knelt beside the woman. He said her name; she looked at him, but her eyes were glazed, and when she tried to speak all she could manage were a few, slurred syllables. He ran his fingers through her hair until he came to a large lump on her scalp; parting the hair revealed blackened skin seeping fluid. "Is Doctor Trevallyn on his way?" he asked. Pickman, nodded, glowering at Walter with eyes that were rapidly turning a magnificent shade of black. Again. The old butler's mouth twitched.

"You nobe," said Pickman thickly, "you're 'njoying dis far toob much. Stop."

"My most humble apologies."

Pickman muttered something that Walter couldn't make out but was probably impolite anyway.

Someone knocked on the door, then opened it. Doctor Trevallyn stalked in. His eyes flicked across the room, taking in the destruction before resting on Pickman and the poor nurse.

"Broke your nose _again?"_he said disgustedly. "If you keep doing that it'll end up smeared all over your face."

"Ib's noh _my_faulb!"

Walter stepped aside as the good doctor's entourage bustled in, loaded the nurse onto a stretche, and wheeled her out again. Trevallyn himself picked up the whelp and moved him along.

"I'll call someone to come and give you a hand with the mess," the doctor said, over his shoulder.

"No hurry," replied the butler, idly watching the weird shadows that were slowly creeping over the red patches in the carpet. Alucard would never let that good, fresh blood go to waste.


	6. Samson: IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "_He ran," the unicorn said. "You must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention." Her voice was gentle, and without pity. "Never run," she said. "Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly and she may not follow. Walk very slowly, magician."_

"_He ran," the unicorn said. "You must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention." Her voice was gentle, and without pity. "Never run," she said. "Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly and she may not follow. Walk very slowly, magician."_

_So they fled across the night together, the tall man in black and the horned white beast. The magician crept as close to the unicorn's light as he dared, for beyond it moved hungry shadows, the shadows of the sounds that the harpy made as she destroyed the little there was to destroy of the Midnight Carnival. But another sound followed them long after these had faded, followed them into morning on a strange road- the tiny, dry sound of a spider weeping. _

-'The Last Unicorn' by Peter S. Beagle

After Integra woke up he gave her the toy rabbit and horses that he'd found in the attic. He stayed in her bedroom, watching her play with them while she ate the sandwiches that he'd prepared for her. Sounds of talking and movement in the main room. The cleaning staff were, as always, swift and efficient. Upon finishing he thanked them politely, shutting the door behind them and sliding the security bolts shut. Integra followed him and sat herself down in the precise middle of the room.

"Warlter!" she sang. "Warlter! Warlter!"

He turned as she beamed and held the rabbit up so that he could see it.

"Look!" she said excitedly. "Look, look, look!"

"I'm looking, Integra. It's very nice."

She titled her head, trying to understand.

"Nice. It is nice."

She blinked, and then nodded vigorously. "Nice!" she said.

Walter sat on one of the lounge chairs and took a small penknife from his pocket and a handkerchief also, which he spread out onto his lap. He flicked out the smallest blade and began to run it under his fingernails, cleaning them thoroughly, checking to make sure that his nails weren't torn or rough or too long. He stayed there a while, leaning forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees and watched Integra play. She looked so happy. She cradled the toy rabbit in her arms and babbled a stream of nonsensical syllables at it and then suddenly and distinctly she said:

"Giggi."

He jerked bolt upright. She said it again.

"Giggi."

He'd not told her its name. She must have remembered it by herself. He smiled to himself and stood, and walked to the bathroom. Without so much as hesitating she abandoned her toys and came running after him. He switched the lights on and stepped inside.

"Bath?" she asked curiously, following him in.

He washed his hands in the disinfectant soap, rinsing them thoroughly before rubbing hand cream in until the skin was soft and supple. Integra stood next to him and leaned on his shoulder, watching him intently.

"Bath?" she said again. "Bath time?"

Walter dried his hands on the paper towel, and checked his nails once more. Integra swayed, singing quietly to herself as he knelt and turned on the taps for the bath. Standing, he put his arms around her and she cuddled in close, rubbing her forehead into his chest. She sighed happily. Walter swallowed. He dropped his hand down her side, feeling for the zip in her skirt and tugged at it, and she pulled away.

"Bath!" she said happily, and pushed the skirt down her legs. She fumbled with her t-shirt, pulling it up to show her bra. He helped her strip.

"You're getting chubby," he murmured, and poked one of her soft hips with his forefinger. "Too much food."

"Food?" she said hopefully, "now?"

He ignored her. The bath was full, and he turned off the taps and checked the water. He held her hand as she got in, and lathered up the washcloth and began to bathe her. First her scalp, then her back, and she snatched the cloth from him and scrubbed at her face as he rubbed thick cream into her hair.

"It's getting longer," he told her. "Another few months and it'll be down to your shoulders." He took an empty plastic container from its place beside the tub and scooped up some water. "Close your eyes," and he poured it over her head. She shook herself like a dog, covering both Walter and the walls with soap suds and water. "I really wish you wouldn't do that."

She giggled.

He washed her toes next, then her calves, behind her knees, her thighs. He pushed the cloth between her legs and washed her sex thoroughly; his hand slipped; his finger entered her, and he had the brief impression of the heat of her body and the resistance that was her hymen before she leant forward and bit him hard on the ear. Hot liquid began to slide down his neck and he fell backwards as she lunged at him a second time. Integra snarled, her teeth stained red.

"Basss…_tard,"_she hissed.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," said Walter, squeezing his earlobe to stop the bleeding. "It was an accident."

She spat at him. Bloody spittle sprayed across his chest. He blinked at her mildly.

"You're in a fine mood tonight, aren't you?"

* * *

In the darkness before dawn, a shadow came a-creeping through the silent corridors of the mansion. Fleet and still and deadly it slipped between the dark and the light. It ducked between watchmen and insomniacs and if you'd chanced to see it, you'd have doubted the evidence of your own eyes if you hadn't heard the soft, infrequent scuff of its foot against the timber floor.

Security in this place could have certainly used some tightening, but try telling Sir Hellsing that.

Walter made his way gradually and indirectly towards the records room, moving slowly, every step taken with exaggerated care. The hours of physical therapy had lessened the permanent spasm in his foot but it still wasn't responding the way it should. He was irritated with the delay caused by his own body, but speed would only result in him getting caught and asked uncomfortable questions. The days where he could go anywhere in the Organisation Headquarters without so much as raising an eyebrow were gone with Integra's wits.

He arrived at the door of the records room and pressed a quick sequence of numbers into the keypad. Strictly speaking it wasn't the access code so much as it was the master code and only three people had ever known of its existence. One could barely remember her own name any more, one was of course Walter himself, and the other was the man who had designed and programmed the system in the first place. A most excellent fellow and quite a genius in his own specialised field whose only fault, as far as Walter had been able to ascertain, was singing like a canary bird whenever his member was between the lips of his favourite prostitute of the week. Walter had truly regretted the man's death but then, some things were necessary, however unpleasant.

The door opened with the soft hiss of sealed air escaping. He shut it behind him, and made certain to lock it again.

The records room was in fact several different chambers. All three were climate controlled and kept immaculately clean. There was the main computer terminal that always ran, no matter what hour of the day of night, and several smaller slave terminals that could be used to access the data but not input it. There was the second room with three different airlocks that contained valuable and fragile historical documents, and a much, much larger room beside that. It held nothing but rows of filing cabinets containing the masses of paper that all government organisations, no matter how secret, always seemed to generate. Walter headed straight for the master computer and, with a few efficient clicks of the keyboard, took control of the security cameras and fixed several loops in the system, a simple time sequence of the empty room before he came in. His master code would be useless after this and he fully intended to use it while he could.

He stepped quickly into the cabinet room. Walter knew exactly what he was looking for and where to find it. Moving along the rows of filing cabinets, he reached a peculiarly old-fashioned and worn looking specimen. He pulled open a drawer, then another, and another, until he found the file he was looking for, misfiled and stuffed impossibly thick with yellowing paper. He flicked through it rapidly with his gloved fingers; he remembered the file well enough to know what he needed but not so well that he could do without it. He plucked out a handful of sheafs and folded them up into a wad. This he slipped into his shoe and then he set the cabinet to rights and moved rapidly back to the computers, sitting back down in front of the master terminal.

Current Hellsing personnel records: Pickman, Christopher Michael.

Born in Dover. Twenty-seven years old. Unmarried, no listed relatives, joined the army-in-ordinary at nineteen. Based in Northern Ireland (and obviously tougher than Walter had given him credit for) until he joined the SAS at age twenty-two. Then given further training in Whitstable, Kent.

Walter frowned. Whitstable? Surely that couldn't right. He clicked on Pickman's medical records and, as he read, the frown slowly gave way to a particularly nasty smile.

There was the sound of the door opening. "Do you know," he said without taking his eyes from the screen, "that Chris Pickman has six lumbar vertebrae in his spinal column, and thirteen thoracic vertebrae? Two in his sacrum aren't fused, and what's more, there's evidence of an intervertebral disc between them."

"And just how many vertebrae in your spine do you have?" asked Sir Hellsing wearily.

"Fourteen thoracic vertebrae and eight cervical vertebrae," answered Walter cheerfully, looking up.

Sir Hellsing made a little mocking bow in reply. He looked ridiculous in pyjamas, dressing gown and fluffy koala slippers, but his deranged and highly dangerous pet lurking behind his shoulder showed that he deadly serious.

"You had Alucard watching me all along," and Alucard gave Walter a little shrug that could have meant anything from, 'I'm sorry,' to 'so what?'

"I've studied your records so much I can just about quote the whole lot from memory." Sir Hellsing sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It didn't, of course, tell me near what I wanted to know but it's given me a general idea." He stepped aside. "Walter, get the hell away from my computer. Alucard, escort this man up to my office and make sure he stays there."

"Yes, Master," growled the vampire, moving forward. Walter went willingly enough. He'd found what he wanted.

* * *

In Sir Hellsing's office, Walter opened the heavy drapes. Outside everything was painted in shades of the blackest purple, and on the horizon was the faintest smudge of dawn light. His one regret about living on the Hellsing estate was that he couldn't see the stars so close to the lights of London, but over the years he'd learned to make do with the moon. Early as it was, the mansion was already waking up; there was movement in the courtyard. Bakers and cleaners, soldiers and secretaries. Beside Walter, Alucard fidgeted. Sunrise made him simultaneously restive and sleepy. When the vampire yawned he displayed dentition that would make a crocodile weep with envy.

"Do you know," said Walter absently, "that I often wonder what would have happened to me if I hadn't joined Hellsing?"

"Nameless and dead in some foreign country," said Alucard, and he abruptly turned and nuzzled into Walter's neck. "Or else mad."

"Geroff, will you?" The old man clamped his hand over Alucard's mouth and pushed him away. "What was _that_in aid of?"

"I'm sorry. I'm hungry."

"You've not eaten?"

"No one will feed me."

Walter rubbed at his temples, at the headache that was threatening to form. Alucard reached out and gently brushed the old man's cheek with his fingertips. Walter shuddered and felt his hair stand on end.

"You should have taken my offer when you had the chance," the vampire told him sadly, and moved away just as the door opened and a soft click filled the room with harsh, artificial light.

"You can go now," Sir Hellsing told Alucard, even as Walter turned and folded into a bow that was a precise inch-and-a-half too shallow. The vampire slipped into his shadows and Sir Hellsing slipped behind the desk that had belonged to his past three predecessors. As Walter stepped into his old place in front of that huge mahogany monstrosity- one of thirteen identical pieces presented by King George to each of his Round Table Knights- he noted that the younger man had changed out of his nightclothes and into a slightly rumpled suit with the shirt open at the throat. He hadn't dressed his hair either, and without gel or oil the cowlick in the exact centre of his forehead stood up violently, just like Integra's. The old butler felt the faintest touch of nostalgia that grew stronger as Sir Hellsing set his fingers in a steeple against his mouth and subjected Walter to an intense stare that made him resemble the former director even more.

"Your medical records make for some fascinating reading, do you know that? One doctor describes you as 'bizarre' no less than seventeen times on the one piece of paper. All of those extra organs and vertebrae and nerve endings and muscle fibres..." The corner of his mouth quirked humourlessly. "One might argue that you hardly classify as a human."

"Sir, I resent that-"

"_You can resent all you like!" _thundered Sir Hellsing. He took a couple of deep breaths, making a visible effort to calm himself. "The place where you were born, the place where you were raised and trained and where they made your rings, was turned into dust and ashes during the Blitz. You are the only thing and the only person that remains of the entire project. Tell me, Mr Dornez," he drawled, narrowing his eyes, "are you a made creature or a born creature? Were you artificially engineered or are you simply a freak of nature?"

Walter didn't so as much as bat an eyelash. "That is classified information," he said.

"Of course," Sir Hellsing sighed and rubbed his mouth. "Do you know that the military has been trying to get you back for the past fifty-two years? All of the other directors have begged, refused and in some cases blackmailed and outright lied to prevent it. The military have even taken legal action to get hold of your corpse in the event of your eventual demise. Integra responded with legal action of her own, you'll no doubt be delighted to know; although, from what I gather from her notes on the matter, her refusal to comply was more a combination of bloody-mindedness and her peculiar sense of humour than from any other moral objections." He laid his hands flat on the desk top and leaned forward intently. "Why are you fighting me, Walter?"

"Sir?"

"Don't blink and 'sir' me," he hissed. "Tell me why you are resisting me. Tell me why you broke into my records room. _Just what the hell is your problem?"_

"With all due respect," said Walter finally, "you are not the rightful Head of Hellsing."

There was a terrible, terrible silence.

"You are not the rightful Director. You are just filling in. You could be any one of a dozen faceless, nameless cousins, interchangeable, indistinguishable…no life. No personality. No soul. When the time comes you will be replaced and no one will care."

"Your rings," said Sir Hellsing, his eyes glittering coldly. "Take them off. Take them off now."

Walter hesitated, involuntarily squeezing his hands, feeling the bands he had worn so long that he barely even noticed them anymore.

"Do it."

He fumbled with his left thumb first, twisting the ring so that it slid over the smooth, soft leather of his gloves, forcing it over his swollen knuckle. It fell into the palm of his hand and he placed it, with a soft click, on the desk between them. They both stared it. It seemed harmless, lying there. Just a ring.

"And the others."

Nine more times he did this. Nine more rings on the polished mahogany. Sir Hellsing drew in a tight, shuddering breath. "Walter Dornez," he said, "I hereby restrict you to your quarters and those of Integral Hellsing. From now on she is your only duty and your only care at the Hellsing Organisation."

"Is he my replacement?" asked Walter bitterly. "That agile pup with the extra bones in his spine? Are you going to give him my rings as well as my Integra?"

"Get out, Dornez. Get out of my office, get out of my life. Just _leave_."

With his face the perfect mask of stony obedience, the old butler bowed and left, shutting the door behind him with exaggerated care.

He stalked blindly down the corridor. His mind was a disordered mess of rage and mourning and he wrung his hands over and over until they sweated and ached inside their gloves. There was a red haze hanging in front of his eyes and all he wanted to do was kill, find something and hear it scream as he ripped it into wet, quivering little pieces. The headache that had started in the office was rapidly intensifying, each heartbeat thudding like heavy artillery inside his head. Abruptly, his foot went numb and he stumbled. There was a sickening crack as he fell to his knees. The world blurred and then twisted violently so that he was looking at the ceiling. He blinked once.

_Oh,_he thought dreamily. _I'm having a stroke…_

The ceiling shrank away into the distance as he dropped into the floor, tenderly cradled by the chilling shadows that wrapped themselves around him, covering his face and eyes in darkness.


	7. Sound of Spiders Weeping: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "_When I woke up, I found myself possessing nothing. I miss the world that people lived in. That's the only place I want to live. Even if it is filled with conflict, and sin, and death...even if a lot of painful things do await me there...I still miss the world I lived in. Sometimes you don't know how much you love something until you lose it. Why do people fall in love? Why do people want to live with other people?"_

"_When I woke up, I found myself possessing nothing. I miss the world that people lived in. That's the only place I want to live. Even if it is filled with conflict, and sin, and death...even if a lot of painful things do await me there...I still miss the world I lived in. Sometimes you don't know how much you love something until you lose it. Why do people fall in love? Why do people want to live with other people?"_

-'Saikano' Volume 7

Pain.

Pain.

He was awakened by pain. Pain in his head, inside his skull, inside his_brain,_ some tiny evil had crawled inside there and was now lashing out at the delicate tissues and membranes surrounding it. There was a weight on top of him, pinning him down and he gasped and kicked instinctively but there was no shifting it. Icy fingers held him still with implacable strength. A vile taste in his mouth, like he'd just vomited blood. A cold, slimy _something_ rasped across his forehead, then again, and again, and he shuddered violently as it somehow reached inside his head to where the pain was, tugging, tugging, until he could feel the raw agony moving from the centre of his head and up towards his forehead, each time the_something_ touched his face the pain moved a little more, became a little stronger, the tugging the pain the tugging grew worse and worse until all he felt was pain he ceased to exist he ceased to be Walter he ceased to be anything except pain pain it pressed against the inside of his skull the _something_pulled again and the pain smashed the heavy bone to pieces and was free.

A supernova exploded behind his eyes. He slept.

* * *

There was the sound of someone speaking, a low voice, shaded eloquent with grief. It was familiar, this voice, and not unpleasant to hear but he was tired and he wanted to sleep. He burrowed deeper into his warm blankets, but the voice was soft and incessant and it kept him awake. Dimly, gradually, he came to understand that the voice he heard was his own.

He opened his eyes.

Alucard was curled up next to him, propped up on his elbow so that he could peer down at the dying man. Alucard's mouth was stained red and when Walter reached up to touch his own face his fingers came away bloody even though the skin didn't seem to be broken.

He kept talking. Whispering in the dark.

"I had resigned myself to the inevitability of my own death.

"Everything dies. Men. Women. Humans, animals, oceans, mountains. Even stars. Even monsters. Even you. One day, you too will lie down. It is simply the order of things. I had always believed that the only true immortality was God so I hunted those creatures who sort to steal His immortality for themselves, who tried to go against the way things should be.

"I convinced myself that I fought for my country. I convinced myself that I fought for my church. I convinced myself that I fought for a treasured innocence that I was never allowed to possess. And it's true. It's true. That conviction was not and is not a lie, even though the greater truth is that I have always enjoyed what I did far too much.

"I made peace with myself as a child, made peace with the things they did to me in that factory laboratory, the things that they taught me. The weapons that were given to me there have been a part of me for so long I feel their absence like nakedness, like missing flesh and bone.

"I resigned myself to an extraordinary life, a violent, blood-soaked life for my God, for my Queen and my country and my Hellsing. I resigned myself to a life utterly devoid of what anyone would call normalcy; devoid of human lovers, marriage, children, houses and friends, books borrowed from the public library. I resigned myself to the absence of all these things and I did not mourn for I was content although sometimes, I'll admit, I did daydream. It is human nature to wonder about the things one does not have, but I did have my Hellsing and it was all I truly wanted. Hellsing is my parent; Hellsing is my child; Hellsing is my family and my past and my present and my reason for the future.

"I have loved two people in my life. I loved Arthur. I loved Integra.

"Arthur died. It was the order of things even though decades on I still miss that idiot and sometimes I want more than anything to be fifteen again and picking up after him as he prattles on about a morality I have never really understood and that he never really believed in.

"Integra died. It was not the order of things. I tried to bring her back. It was not the order of things. My punishment is to watch her shuffle through her life like some beloved ghoul that I cannot bring myself to lay to rest.

"I have enjoyed my life. I have enjoyed growing old, with all of the nagging infirmities that growing old brings purely because I never expected it to happen. I had always thought that one day, during battle with the dragon I would slip and I would miss and on that day the dragon would finally win.

"I have watched my Integra grow with my Hellsing. I was by her side. I was content.

"I am dying. I have failed her. She is dead and I will be dead and I must trust in a monster's promise and a monster's blood that one day she will live again and she will not need me. All my life I have done my duty. I have served my many masters in every way that they wanted. At the end of it, all I desired was to see Integra become a powerful woman. But I failed her, you see. I slipped. I missed. The dragon won.

"It's just that I don't think it's fair. I really don't. It is not fair, it is not just. I failed her, and God and Hellsing have failed me. It is not the order of things. God has abandoned me."

Alucard blinked at him slowly, inhuman eyes softened by something very close to pity.

"Sympathy from the devil," Walter murmured bitterly. He turned his face away. He drifted. He slept.

* * *

"I know what you did," said the vampire, when Walter swam into consciousness again. Gently he cupped the old man's chin in his hand and titled it so that Walter's eyes met his own. "I know what you did," he said again. "I know what you did to Integra. I know why you did it, too." He bared his teeth. "You didn't have to. All you had to do was ask. I could have told you she was still a virgin."

Walter blinked dreamily and licked his lips. He was hot and sweaty in his clothes, and his feet burned because Alucard hadn't thought to take his shoes off. "I know better than to believe anything you say," he said eventually.

"Be that as it may," replied Alucard, "I still will not permit you to violate her."

"Will you permit _him _then? She desires him. I know she does."

"She is an adult. I don't understand your jealousy."

"She's a _child!"_

Alucard sighed, surrounding Walter with the smell of open graves. "Go to sleep," he said gently. "And if you do that again I'll tear out your throat."

Walter freed his hand from the tangle of blankets and once again touched his face. Again his fingers came away wet, but this time not with blood.

* * *

Click.

Click.

Click.

Left foot, step. Click. Right foot, step. Click. Left foot, step. Click. Right foot step. Click. Pivot. Click. Left foot, right foot, click, click, click. Over and over again.

An old man walking, leaning on a cane.

It's been said that one begins one's life being spoon fed and helpless to stop one from soiling oneself, and then finishes one's life in exactly the same way. Upon refection, Walter was inclined to agree.

One side of his face hung slack. His eye rolled uselessly in its socket, no lens could keep the stigmatism straight now. A visible tremor in both hands. One shoulder that slumped, one leg that refused to flex, one foot that dragged uselessly behind him. He had a tendency to slur his speech if he was not careful and sometimes when people spoke to him all he could hear was a meaningless tangle of syllables. His balance was odd and if he stood still he'd often sway without meaning too. He had control of his bowels, and although one half of his body was disobedient, it was not numb. There are some small mercies in all of this.

Just another man living beyond his allocated time, waiting for leisurely death to come back and finish the job. It was, Walter thought, utterly pathetic in every way.

Step, click, step, click. Pivot. Click.

Exercises for his hands. Physiotherapy for his legs. A patch for his eye. Integra had peeked beneath it and squealed.

"I'm sending her to Italy," Sir Hellsing had said, when Walter was finally able to rise from his bed and limp slowly to the office. "I'm sending her to Italy, to the brain specialists there," said Sir Hellsing, with his damned, damned pity right there on his face, "I'm sending her away because it'll be good for her and good for the staff," and unspoken between them is the fact that Sir Hellsing was really doing it to break his pet's dangerous fixation on the maimed woman, as the vampire could not follow her across the sea.

"Let me go with her," said Walter, and Sir Hellsing had nodded. It was a small thing to grant and Walter was good as dead anyway. "I have some friends in Italy I'd like to see," and they both knew that once he left he would never return to England, not alive, not ever again.

"I'll give you time," Sir Hellsing had replied, "time for you to get back on your feet again," and Walter had thanked the director through the bitter bile that rose up in his throat.

So, Walter walked, up and down, up and down. Each click of the cane was a second of his life, the grandfather clock, tick-tock, a grain of sand in a rapidly emptying hourglass. Even when the doctor said it was all right for him to leave he still walked, still fighting the body that had finally let him down. The corridor stretched before him, endless, like a hall of mirrors reflecting themselves.

He took a step. His paralysed toes caught on the join between the tiles and he pitched forward, headlong into the ground until something unseen grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him upright. It held him still until he caught his balance again and resumed his pathetic hobble down the corridors of the Hellsing mansion. He hated his own body. He felt trapped, soiled, ruined…old. Helpless. Most of all he felt helpless. And afraid.

Very soon after that the soldiers came and carried him away.

* * *

"…so after that I ended up in Scotland, of all places, at an air force base."

The bar was dark and smoky. The beer was passable and the rum was good, although he wasn't game to try the peanuts. God only knew how long they'd been sitting in the vending machine. His company was ten or so of the older soldiers, Gareth's squadron mainly, and several others. They'd picked him up and forcibly carried him into a van and from the van into this place, for drinks they said, farewell drinks.

"Some of the RAAF boys had just got there as well. Obnoxious and disrespectful for the most part, shit-stirrers, who'd steal anything any thing that wasn't nailed down and some things that were." Walter took a sip of his rum. "Soon after I got in one of the local farmers came around, leading a horse, offering to sell it to the squadron, for rides and a mascot and such.

"I found out later that this farmer had a scam running…he'd wait until a new squadron had come in, and then he'd go sell them this horse. When he heard that they were leaving he would come up and buy his horse back. Heavily discounted, of course."

"Of course," chorused on or two of the soldiers.

"Well, the RAAF boys, as I said, had just arrived at the same time as I did and we all found ourselves standing around looking at the sorry nag.

"One of them said mournfully, 'I've had nothing but mutton for twelve months. Mutton. Mutton boiled, baked, buggered and fried. They give us nothing but bloody mutton and it's never worth eating.'

"Another one said, 'Kippers. In tomato sauce. I've had nothing but tinned kippers in tomato sauce for the past eighteen months.'

"The rations were supposed to be arranged so that everyone received a decent meal three times a day, but the way things worked in practice that entire platoons would get the same thing day in, day out for months on end. I met one man whom I'd known before the war started, one of the gentlest souls in God's creation, who swore that if he ever got home, he was going to visit a certain factory where they made blackberry jam and blow it to smithereens.

"So, the RAAF boys being practical, unsentimental souls immediately slaughtered this poor horse in the hills behind the base and made steak out of it. And very nice steak it was, too."

There was a horrified chorus. "You _ate_it?"

"I ate it. It was the best meat I have ever eaten, before and since." Walter grinned at them over his glass. "You'd eat horse too, if you ever had to live with rationing. If I _ever_see another packet of dried eggs, ever again…" he shuddered. "Of course, very soon after that the RAAF squadron was due to be shipped out and the farmer came walking up the path to get his horse back.

"'Where's me 'orse, then?' I had to be the one to break the sorry news. It's always a terrible thing to see a grown man cry."

Laughter. Gareth slapped him on the back, roaring, "Tell us another!" and he did.

Later on, when everyone was rather tipsy and Walter's heart was fluttering pleasurably inside his chest, Gareth leaned in close and spoke to him softly. "The boys and I…some of us wanted you to know…well, that we don't blame you for what happened to Sir Integral. There was nothing you could have done. It was up to MI5 to secure the area, the hopeless bastards, and they didn't. You just happened to be standing closest to her when she was shot. It wasn't fair for anyone to blame you."

Walter shut his single eye tight. He knew that, fair or not, that was how it worked. He knew that just about all of the Hellsing soldiers thought him a superhuman, capable of anything, least of all protecting a single woman. He knew that the forgiveness being offered to him was conditional upon his expected death; that if he was hale and whole none of them would be there right now, because regardless of the circumstances he'd failed to protect his superior officer and that was unforgivable, no matter what anyone said. But still, he sighed, and felt something deep inside him relax.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

* * *

The white cliffs of Dover. Wasn't that a song?

Walter stood on the deck of the ferry, the ferry that Sir Hellsing had chosen because secretly the upstart bastard was a romantic and he liked the idea of Integra and her troublesome minder sailing away forever. Trains or aeroplanes just didn't have the same ring to them.

The white cliffs of Dover.

The old butler had been all over the world. He'd left and returned, home to England and Hellsing over and over again, so often he'd lost count of how many journeys he'd made over the years. He'd watched city lights fall away from under a dozen, dozen planes. He had ridden on trains. He had taken battleships, private yachts and the occasional smuggling vessel. He had even been on this very same ferry before, too.

He was surrounded by tourists, snapping away with their cameras and babbling away in a hundred different languages with a hundred different accents. Integra cooed excitedly beside him.

He stood there.

He stood and watched the white cliffs of Dover, gleaming and beautiful in the rare clear light, recede into the distance as he had so many times before, wondering about a song he barely remembered and knowing that this was the last time he'd see his England again.

* * *

In Paris Walter nursed his trembling limbs and watched as Christopher the-upstart-shit Pickman installed Integra, and her sizable retinue of bodyguards, day nurses, night nurses and secretaries, in an elegantly understated suite of rooms contained within a hotel of impeccable reputation. Pickman ran the operation with surprisingly competent expertise and Walter was forced to give the pup credit. Without a doubt Pickman was much more formidable than your average war nurse and Walter had met some very formidable war nurses indeed. It only confirmed what he thought, that Pickman was his replacement, an all-purpose retainer to Sir Hellsing like Walter should have been, had been to Sir Integral. Whether or not the puppy would make Trash Man for the Protestant Knights was another matter entirely and the old man was not inclined to judge without first seeing the quality of his fieldwork.

Integra wasn't happy. She'd loved the ferry ride over, had clapped her hands with glee at the sight of gay Paris, but it had been a long day and now she was ready to go home. Confronted with unfamiliar surroundings, confronted with an unfamiliar bed and unfamiliar-smelling sheets she sent Giggi flying across the room and launched herself at the nearest secretary with her fingers curled like talons. The poor man yelped and ran for it while Walter stopped Integra's hissy fit by the simple expedient of throwing a chocolate bar at her.

Pickman rounded upon him in righteous indignation. "You're reinforcing bad behaviour!" he said. Walter glared back.

"Just once won't hurt," he said. "Besides, letting her trash a hotel room would be so," he narrowed his eyes, _"vulgar."_

Pickman swore under his breath and stomped off, leaving Walter to wipe Integra's face clean. "We don't need _him_around, do we?" he whispered. She hummed, her mouth full of chocolate that stained her teeth when she smiled.

Later that night, Walter stood at the window and looked across the lights of Paris. Behind him Integra stirred and muttered in her bed. There was a bitter taste across his tongue, the pills he'd swallowed, and he had taken off his glove so that he could press his good hand against the glass. The chill made his bones ache and felt good.

The soft sound of the door opening.

"Walter?" breathed Pickman. "Are you there?" Light struck Walter's good eye painfully, but it was soon gone as Pickman slipped inside and shut the door behind him. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"I find five hours in twenty-four sufficient."

"Five hours?"

"It used to be two," he gestured at a side table scattered with packets of medication. "These make me very sleepy."

"You only need two hours of sleep?" Pickman shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm told it's a symptom of a great many different mental illnesses."

"I wonder," said the pup, "what a psychiatrist would have made of you, especially you when you were younger."

"'We're all mad here,'" quoted Walter softly, and he smiled. He rested his forehead against the icy glass.

"Ngh," said Integra, and rolled over in her sleep.

"I see _you're_still up."

"I slept on the ferry," replied Pickman absently, and the old man observed the slightest tremor in his hands and wondered how many caffeine pills he'd had.

Out loud Walter said, "What's the matter?" Integra flung her arm out and it struck the wall with a thump. He limped to the bed and sat down on the mattress beside her. Tenderly he stroked the hair from her temples. "Hush, little one," he soothed, and she settled, her limbs relaxing.

"We need to talk," said Pickman, "about Integra."

"Oh?"

"We have to agree on the best way to handle her." He took a deep breath. "About what happened today. You rewarded bad behaviour. It was the absolutely worst thing you could have done."

"It doesn't matter," said Walter, stroking Integra's hair.

"Yes, it does," snapped Pickman.

"Keep your voice down," said Walter mildly, "you'll wake her. I said it doesn't matter, for the time being at least. I'm leaving tomorrow."

"No!" said Integra loudly. She whimpered and kicked out at nothing. "No!"

"Hush, hush, little one, my baby girl," crooned Walter, leaning close. She settled again, and he said, "I have some personal business to attend to. Sir Hellsing has already approved it. I spoke to him earlier on the phone."

"Personal business," said Pickman suspiciously. "Like what?"

"I have to see some old friends."

"Unca Richard," slurred Integra. "No. Please."

"I'll be going with you as far as Genoa, and then I'm leaving. I'll be meeting back up with you in a week at the villa."

"The one outside of Ravenna?"

"The very same."

"We won't be there more than two days, remember. We have to be in Vatican City after that."

"I remember."

"Something about Vatican specialists?" prattled Pickman. "What does the Vatican know about medicine anyway?"

"You'd be amazed."

"So just who are the friends you're going to see?" Walter stared at him and Pickman actually took a step back.

"That," enunciated the old man, "is none of your business."

There was a frigid silence, broken only by Integra rolling over.

"You're right. It is none of my business. I apologise."

Walter nodded graciously. "It's nothing overly important, I assure you," he said. "It's something that must be done."

"If you say so," said Pickman sourly. He gestured at Integra, who squirmed and wrinkled her nose in a way that was almost adorable. "I think she needs to be watched tonight."

"I know," said Walter, taking off his tie and other glove and placing them on the bedside table. He untied the string from his eye patch as well, and loosened his hair, and then he toed off his shoes and limped to the foot of the bed where a blanket was folded neatly over the baseboard. Quite matter-of-factly he lay down next to Integra, on top of the quilt, all nice and proper. It took him several goes with his palsied hand to flick the blanket down over his feet. Integra sighed. "Good night, Mr Pickman," he said firmly, wrapping his arm around her. "Please turn the nightlight off before you go."

Pickman hesitated, and then shrugged. "One of the nurses will be in later to check on you," he said. He tapped the lampshade with his finger and the faint light disappeared entirely.

"That won't be necessary," said Walter. The shadow that was Christopher Pickman didn't reply. He opened the door, silhouetted against the brightness for a second, and shut it behind him. "We don't need anything or anybody. Anybody at all." The old man buried his face in her hair. "Do we, Integra?"

She said, "Hurts. Headache. Why's there blood, Warlter? Where's it from?"

"Go to sleep, Integra," and she relaxed against him, moving into deeper dreams.


	8. Samson: V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "_I don't think you can fight a whole universe, sir!"_

"_I don't think you can fight a whole universe, sir!"_

"_It's the prerogative of every life form, Mr Stibbons!"_

_-'_The Science of Discworld III' by Terry Pratchett, Jack Cohen

* * *

It was still dark when he woke up, feet aching because they were cold. Walter raised his head, muzzy from sleep and the pills he'd taken, pills to stop his blood from clotting, pills to keep his heart from beating too fast, pills to stop the worst of the shakes, pills to keep him alive. Integra had rolled over to face him in the night. She was sleeping soundly, her hair a mess, a thin line of drool staining the pillowcase. She wasn't lovely like this but she was, Walter hated to admit, rather cute.

He gently touched her mouth, feeling the warm slickness of her saliva against his fingertips. He considered staying where he was, ignoring his icy toes, but there were still some hours to go before they had to be up and there was no point letting that precious time be marred by the memory of petty discomforts.

Slipping off the bed, he limped over to where he'd left his shoes and stepped into them. His garments were wrinkled from sleeping in them. Not so long ago he would have felt mortified, but he'd since learned what was truly important. Out of the room and into the central living area, arrayed with comfortable lounges and the very best in entertainment systems. Someone had helpfully left the lights on. Most of Integra's entourage were in separate suites, but Pickman and himself and one of the nurses had rooms in this one. He went into the room where he was supposed to have slept and pulled the quilt off the bed, folding it over his arm. He headed back towards Integra's room and stopped, considering. Moving carefully and slowly, forcing his stiff and rebellious legs to move as quietly as possible to Pickman's room. The door wasn't even closed properly. Walter pushed it ever so slightly, moving it a bare half inch. Sound of hardcore snoring from inside. Two people in there at least.

He opened the nurse's room door without bothering to knock. As he'd suspected, the room was empty.

The old killer considered this. It'd certainly impact upon Integra's care if the puppy was sleeping with the staff, but on the other hand it probably meant that he was less likely to show Integra certain improper attentions if there was a jealous sweetheart hovering about. It was all for the better if one looked at it that way, he supposed.

Back in Integra's room he took off his vest and, sitting on the edge of the bed, tried to massage some life back into his frozen toes. He folded the spare quilt in half and spread it over the blanket. Integra had wrapped her own quilt about her until she was in a warm little cocoon and she murmured in protest as he pulled it away from her chin. He slipped under his blankets and pressed his head against her chest, listening to the breath in her lungs and the thunder of her heart.

* * *

When they reached Genoa, the entire party went to see the ruins of the Roman Coliseum. Surrounded by the crowds Walter squeezed Integra's hand tight. He caught Pickman's eye, and Pickman nodded once, curtly, in reply. Walter left go of Integra's hand, and, as she babbled excitedly to the nurses, he stepped into the swirling mass of people and let them carry him away from her. He caught a last glimpse of her smiling face, and, even though the pain in his chest felt like it was tearing him apart, thought that it was better to leave her happy and unknowing than to say goodbye and see her cry.

He caught a bus to Treviso.

His drivers' license had been revoked after the strokes had begun and hiring a chauffer did not appeal. The bus was hot and populated with a motley collection of bored locals and exhausted tourists. The loud and vulgar Italian boys performed for the loud and vulgar Australian girls, the Japanese tourists huddled together while a French Canadian couple, dressed identically in t-shirts, shorts and jogging shoes, sat up front with their noses in the air..

The bus was only three quarters full, meaning that Walter could sit by himself and examine a small sheaf of yellowing paper (somewhat the worse for wear after being hidden first in his shoe and then in a succession of rather novel and highly uncomfortable places) against a very detailed map of Austria. The paper was an old report back from the days just before the tensions between Hellsing and a number of similar European organisations had cumulated in Arthur receiving a very pointed letter (that is, a great number of pointy things and their correct anatomical usage were lovingly described therein) followed by a series of letter bombs for emphasis. Walter could only hope that the information in the decades-old report was still correct, but then, many things were creatures of habit, not the least being bureaucracies.

Witnesses said mountains and a forest. Spies said an old keep. By making a series of dots on his map, tallying locations and sightings he was left with a circle about two hundred kilometres in diameter. He sighed and flexed his bad foot. Hopefully he'd have it narrowed down for him once he got to Venice.

He folded the map away, ruffled the edges of the report as he looked around thoughtfully, wondering just how many of his fellow travellers were spying on him. He wondered just how many different agencies those spies represented between them because doubtless some of those were being paid twice. You could never trust a spy, least of all your own.

Walter considered his options. He had no doubt that he was going to be photographed and monitored every step of the way. The Angel of Death, even an old and crippled Angel of Death, was not someone any government wanted to see wandering blithely around. He'd have to lose his minders sooner or later, but for the time being he decided that he might as well put up with them. That said, there was no reason to make their lives any easier. He stuck the tip of his cane out in front of the feet of one of the young Italian lads on his way up the end of the bus for another attempt to court one of the Australian girls. The lad tripped and fell just as the vehicle turned suddenly. He landed on the lap of a snoozing older woman. The snoozing older woman woke up swinging her fists.

Ten minutes later the bus pulled into Treviso and roared to a stop, the brakes squealing. The bus driver hurled himself out the door, screaming abuse as he ran to get reinforcements. Inside, World War Three was in full swing.

The Australians were up against the younger Italians, the older Italians hunched down and defended their seats bitterly and the Japanese were making little sorties into the fray as the French Canadians huddled together and gaped in horrified disapproval. The Germans kicked and spat and somewhere, someone was making some very creative comments in Polish regarding the sexual prowess of someone else's mother. The Americans yelled, the Australians bellowed and the air was filled with swearwords and cries of pain.

Walter leant back in his seat and watched the drama unfold, not bothering to hide his broad grin. Young people today. They were so much _fun._

* * *

Venice.

He could never understand why people complained about the smell. There was a smell, certainly, but it was nothing compared to some of the stuff he'd scrapped off his clothing. It was all a matter of perspective. He'd stood next to maturation tanks in sewerage plants; he'd dug open graves and abused all manner of corpses; he'd gutted any sort of creature you'd care to name. Towards the end of his career he'd even spent a memorable afternoon in a hospital waste disposal facility where they cooked everything to mulch with x-rays. It was the only time in his life where he had ended up emptying his stomach. Integra had laughed herself silly when she'd heard about it…

Venice smelled like too many people and stagnant seawater. Not that bad, really, especially when the wind blew. Just don't fall in the canals.

The sun was brilliant in the cloudless sky and he found himself wishing for sunglasses when his eye began to ache. The herds of stampeding tourists buffeted him from every side as he disembarked from the ferry, babbling in a dozen different languages. Tourist guides rounded up their flocks, cynical locals stretched their faces into dazzling, predatory smiles and offered carnival masks and glass beads and genuine- honest!- designer handbags. Walter stomped stolidly through them all and onto the dock. He whacked an ankle or two with his cane.

"Ow!"

"Shit!"

"Dude! You suck!"

"_Bastardo!"_

Really, the manners of some people. Appalling. Serves them right for not making way for a helpless old man.

He left the dock and ducked out of the way of the rush of foot traffic in a little alleyway. The skin under the plastic of his eye patch stung and itched and he pulled it off and rubbed impatiently. As he took his hand away the world struck his eye in a brilliant swirl of colour that twisted into something painful. He hissed impatiently, wiped his eye patch dry on his trouser leg and put it back on. To hell with the wretched thing. To hell with it.

Walter glanced around, got his bearings. St Marks Cathedral over there, the Doge's Palace, straight ahead.

On some indefinable whim, he stopped at a market stall to look at ropes of glass beads and river pearls. He held a strand up to the light. The glass was exactly the same shade of blue as Integra's eyes.

"For that special lady in your life?"

"Peter! How are you?" They embraced, clapping each other on the back.

"I'm well," said Peter Ferguson.

"You look it. Married life suits you."

"Yes, well…" he blushed bashfully. "Can't complain, can't complain."

Walter dropped the beads on the table. "Is there anywhere around here that sells decent rum?"

"Certainly, provided that you get away from the main tourist areas."

"Shall we, then?"

"We shall."

They strolled serenely through the crowd, Walter leaving a trail of bruised kneecaps and cracked shins behind him. After the fifth whimpering victim dropped to the ground Ferguson said, "You know, I beginning to think that you're not coping with your…ah…infirmities very well."

"What makes you think that?" asked Walter innocently, stomping viciously on someone's toe.

"Nothing whatsoever," said Ferguson dryly. "I think you've drawn blood."

"Oh, deary me," snarled Walter, "what a clumsy oaf I am." He leant on his cane and delivered a mule kick without looking behind him. Soft flesh gave way under the sole of his foot and the hapless creature emitted a single feeble squeak as it fainted. "It's on the footpath. It knows the risks it's taking."

Ferguson came to a halt in front of a blistered and peeling green door. "In here," he said, pushing it open, "hurry, before someone decides to fight back."

"I wish they would. It's no fun otherwise," Walter stepped into the dim coolness, and the door swung shut behind him.

"Up the stairs, I'm afraid. Will they give you any trouble?"

"I'll manage," he said, leaning heavily on the banister.

"So," said Ferguson, "how is she?"

"As fine," panted Walter, "as one might expect." He stepped up onto the landing and wiped his face with his handkerchief. He looked around. A small, dark room with a cramped bar and worn tables and chairs. "A little smallish for a pub, isn't it?"

"It keeps the tourists away. Resident ex-pats only sort of thing." Ferguson pulled a banknote from his pocket and waved it at the bartender. "A rum and coke and a club soda, please."

"Soft drink?" said the butler, arching his eyebrow.

Ferguson blushed. "Missus doesn't want me drinking."

Walter snorted. "Pathetic," he said, pulling out a chair.

"I don't mind it." The bartender set the glasses on the table with a soft clink and drifted off. Ferguson took a sip of his drink. "How fine is fine, out of curiosity?"

Walter smiled wistfully and tapped the side of his glass. "She's getting better. Little by little. The prognosis is good."

"And you?"

"Sorry?"

"What's your prognosis?"

"Not so good, I'm afraid." He swallowed, coughing as the rum burned. "I'm going to die very soon."

"How long do you have?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. I've already made one miraculous recovery. Miracles usually don't repeat themselves, I've found."

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks.

"I was wondering…" said Walter, and hesitated.

"What?"

"Do you…miss Hellsing?"

"No, not really." Ferguson gestured at the bartender. "I love my wife. This consultancy business is a good life and besides…"he shrugged. "It broke my heart when our little girl died. I couldn't stay. I couldn't stand to see what Integra had become. What she'd been reduced to. Do you blame me, for not staying?" he asked as the bartender set more drinks down in front of them.

"No. I think you would have found it just as difficult to deal with Sir Hellsing as I did."

"Did you really front up to him decked out in glitter like David Bowie?"

Walter grinned and cracked an ice cube between his teeth. "Wasn't intentional," he said.

"You're a very strange man," and Walter toasted him.

"Sir Hellsing looked appreciative."

"I'm sure."

"So how's business?"

"Business is good. Different agencies contact me and ask me advice. I give it and in return they give me money. Makes the missus happy."

"Doesn't it bother you, being watched all the time?"

"Walter. People like us are not the type to be left alone. I'd be worried if I _wasn't_ being watched. It'd surely mean that I was no longer useful. A liability to be disposed of."

"Do you blame me? For what happened to Integra?"

"Yes."

"Fair enough."

He wet his finger and ran it around the rim of his glass. "What still bothers me is the stupidity of it all. All that time planning the hit. Figuring out timetables, figuring out how to get past security. Figuring out how to get past _me._And she wasn't even the right one. It was Sir Islands that should have died. Not her. Not Integra."

"I always believed that mankind could defeat all the monsters of the world. When she died I realised that I was wrong. Mankind cannot defeat the monsters because we _are_the monsters. Fighting them is just fighting ourselves. Shadowboxing."

"Shadowboxing," repeated Walter softly, finishing the last of his drink. "I've never thought of it that way." He looked at Ferguson. The younger man was staring at him, hard.

"Did you do something to her?"

"What do you mean?"

"You heard the doctors. She was supposed to be permanently catatonic. 'Persistent vegetative state'. What did you do to her, Walter?"

"I did nothing," said Walter calmly, meeting Ferguson's eyes. "What could I have done?"

The silence was broken by the bartender stepping in and whisking away the empty glasses. Ferguson pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger while Walter sucked thoughtfully at an ice cube.

"I came here to say goodbye, Peter. I don't have much time left. I came here to say goodbye and to ask a favour of you."

"What?" asked Ferguson suspiciously. In answer Walter pulled out his map of Austria, folded to show the section he wanted.

"Recognise this area of land?" The younger man stared at it, traced the red lines with his forefinger. "I know that she's somewhere in this area. I know that the Austrians are keeping her, and that Iscariot has had no choice but to let her be. It's too big an area for me to search for her. I need to know where she is."

"Why do you want to know?"

Walter smiled unpleasantly. "It's my last hurrah," he said.

"Walter. She'll kill you. She's one of the old ones."

"Then I'll die with honour, covered in blood instead of my own piss." Ferguson hesitated. "How do you want to leave this world, Peter? What is it you want to be remembered for?"

"I want," said Ferguson, "to be remembered as a good husband."

"And I want to be remembered as the Angel of Death. You know where she is. I can tell from your face that you do."

"What about Integra?"

"I gave my life to her. My death is my own."

There was another long silence, and nothing to break it. Finally Ferguson reached out and tapped a certain place on the map.

"Thank you, Peter," said Walter. He put the map away and stood up. "I won't see you again."

Ferguson also stood. "You know that Iscariot are going to want to know. And I'll have to tell them. Sooner rather than later."

"Two nights and a day is all I ask."

"I can give you that much, I suppose."

They stared at each other, and finally Ferguson reached out shyly to pat Walter on the shoulder.

"God and her Majesty go with you," he said.

"Amen."

They embraced.

"Goodbye, Walter," and Walter left.

On his way back to the docks, leaving a trail of whimpering and traumatised tourists behind him, he stopped at the booth where he had met Ferguson. The necklace of blue glass beads and purple river pearls was still there, and, on a whim, he bought it and wrapped it around his wrist like a bracelet. He went to a public telephone, dropping Euros in until it clicked. He tapped the keypad with a number that he knew very well.

Something picked up the phone. He said, "You owe me," and gave an address. He hung up without saying goodbye.

After that Walter took the ferry, back to the mainland.


	9. Samson: VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yet each man kills the thing he loves  
> By each let this be heard,  
> Some do it with a bitter look,  
> Some with a flattering word,  
> The coward does it with a kiss,  
> The brave man with a sword!_

_Yet each man kills the thing he loves  
By each let this be heard,  
Some do it with a bitter look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss,  
The brave man with a sword!_

_Some kill their love when they are young,  
And some when they are old;  
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,  
Some with the hands of Gold:  
The kindest use a knife, because  
The dead so soon grow cold._

_Some love too little, some too long,  
Some sell, and others buy;  
Some do the deed with many tears,  
And some without a sigh:  
For each man kills the thing he loves,  
Yet each man does not die._

-from 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol' by Oscar Wilde

* * *

In a small modest hotel, not very far from the Austrian border, Walter woke up.

Outside the sun was just beginning to set and the light flooding through the curtains painted the little room in hot pink and dirty orange. He stretched luxuriously under the sheet. Drummed his heels against the mattress, scratched his chest. Enjoyed the rare treat of waking up slowly.

On the dresser was a pair of dark jeans and a shirt in a style at least forty years too young for him, still in their plastic wrapping. An electric razor, also new, and a toothbrush, a case for his monocle and a handful of jewellery, and some money. A large roll of soft, wide bandages. The knife that Gareth and his boys had given him, in a leather sheath. The fake ID that he'd used to check into the hotel he had burned in the little bathroom sink before he had gone to bed. Other than that, the only things he had with him were the clothes that he had worn here.

He yawned. Touched, as was his newfound habit, the slack skin on the side of his face, stroking it, rubbing it, willing it to come back to life. There was the slightest twitch in response and he gradually worked his way down the side of his body until he reached his foot. This he massaged until it prickled with pins and needles.

Walter got up. He showered and cleansed himself. He set the electric razor to its highest setting and, with a great deal of melancholy, shaved off his hair. The face he saw in the mirror looked even older with the iron grey fuzz outlining the planes of his skull and he fancied that he saw a certain resemblance to Integra after she had had her operation. In this tiny bathroom he stood and started at his reflection. He said, "Are you sure? Is this really what you want?" and the self in the mirror bared its teeth in a vicious, bloody smile.

He dressed himself in the too-young, too-big clothing, slipped the knife into his belt and, on a whim, wrapped the Venetian necklace he'd bought around his wrist like a bracelet. He gathered up his shorn hair and his old clothes and the sheets as well, soaps he'd used and the razor and the toothbrush, folded them in a single succinct and neat package. He put on his gloves, the only old clothing that he wanted to keep, and wiped down every possible surface in the little room for fingerprints. True night had set in by the time he finished, and he tucked the package of sheets under his arm. He walked to the door, took one last look around the room and nodded in satisfaction. Almost as an afterthought he took the complementary packet of matches and then he left, shutting the door firmly on his life.

Walter kept walking. He walked until he left the motel and the scattered lights of humanity far behind him. All around the scrubby brush optimistically called a forest buzzed with insect life and when he came to a certain fork in the road he scrambled down into the ditch and built a little pyre of dry twigs and leaves. On top of this he laid his sheets and old clothes and set fire to the lot. With a great deal of pleasure he snapped his cane over his knee and fed that to the flames as well. He climbed out of the ditch and waited, watched the moon arc high above the world. Soon enough the sound of an engine reached him, long before he saw the headlights. Back into the ditch he went and crouched down to watch the road. A handsome limousine of an older make and model, immaculately kept, pulled up alongside. From out of the driver's side door a young woman emerged, thin and nervous in a nail-bitten recovering drug addict kind of way, who peered hopelessly into the dark.

Cautiously, Walter slipped out from the shadows. The driver jumped.

"Mr Dornez?" she squeaked.

"The very same."

"Please get in. She's expecting you." She opened the passenger door and stood back, wringing her hands as though they hurt her. Walter nodded politely and climbed in, and she shut the door behind him.

Inside the car was lit only by a single light bulb, but nevertheless his good eye blurred with tears as it fought to adjust and he blinked. The indistinct figure in the corner moved. It spoke.

"Good evening, Mr Dornez."

"A very good evening to you, Lady Helena. Thank you for taking the time."

"It's as you said," replied the child vampire, "I owe you. I assure you that I never forget a debt."

"Even so."

"I assume that you need to travel without the inconvenience of witnesses?"

"Yes," said Walter, peering out the windows with interest. With startling suddenness a very English pea-soup fog was rising.

"It is done, Angel of Death."

"You read my mind," he smiled.

"Not with any pleasure."

"You'll surely know where I want to go," and as he spoke he felt the car change direction and accelerate. "You have my gratitude."

"Go to hell," said Helena in her young-old voice, "murderer."

"Pots and kettles, m'dear. Besides," Walter leant forward and grinned a death's head grin, "this is all to your convenience, is it not? You and Millarca have hated each other for a very long time," and Helena narrowed her yellow eyes into slits, but she did not reply. "So please spare me the wounded indignation and the false moral superiority. We both know that you didn't get to reach the age you are now by being the shy and retiring type."

"Mr Dornez, it is my sincerest wish that you die a slow and painful death."

"And if I take Millarca along with me, so much the better?"

"Nothing," she said, "would please me more." She looked up. "We're almost there."

Walter blinked. "So soon? But it hasn't been more than ten minutes, surely. There must be still some ways to go"

"The dead travel fast, Mr Dornez. You of all people should know that. Don't ask questions that can't be answered," and Walter felt the limo slow as she spoke.

The car came to a halt and the driver opened the door before Walter could.

"Sorry," she said to Helena, "I couldn't get any closer. The fences and watchmen…" she trailed off, fidgeting miserably. The vampire smiled calmly at her.

"This is fine," she said. "Mr Dornez doesn't mind walking the rest of the way. It's not far. Do you, Mr Dornez?"

"Not at all," he told her, which was a lie but only a small one. He got out, followed by Helena. She barely came up to his waist and the way she titled her head reminded him, suddenly, of the way a different small blonde had looked at him over a decade ago. "I may see you again," he said.

"Anything is possible." Helena motioned at her driver, who produced an exquisite fur coat from out of nowhere and draped it over the child vampire's shoulders. Helena patted the girl's hand in thanks, and although the glance they shared was brief a blind man could see that they loved each other. A millennia-old child vampire and a recovering ex-junkie teenager. What a pair.

Walter smiled politely. He bowed formally, his hand over his heart. Helena nodded curtly in reply. She got back into the car.

"Tell me, Mr Dornez, is this truly what you want?"

"I have always wanted to leave this world the same way that I entered it: kicking, screaming, and covered in someone else's blood."

Helena blinked at him. Then, suddenly, threw her head back and laughed. She kept laughing as the driver shut the door, got back in the car, and drove away.

Leaving Walter standing in the middle of forest, looking up at the old stone keep silhouetted against the stars.

From his pocket he took an old iron ring and worked it onto his thumb, over his glove. Another ring, another finger. Ten times he did this; ten rings, one on each finger.

He flicked his hand. Sliver flashed, just for a second.

Imagine, of all things, an old barn cat. Half blind, half crippled, the days where it was a terror to all kinds of vermin are over. Towards the end of its life it is slow and cunning. It spends its last remaining months of life in the sun, watching the pigeons and sparrows play in the dust, to all intents and purposes, harmless. Imagine: an old cat, crippled yes, but still a hunter, no longer whole in body but viciously cunning in mind. Imagine this old cat sitting in the sun, no longer able to run after its prey, watching, waiting, for that prey to forget that the cat was once a hunter, waiting for that silly mynah bird to get _just _a little closer.

"What use, Sir Hellsing," said Walter to himself, "is a one-of-a-kind weapon? Not all the sets were destroyed with the factory. It's a pity no one lived to tell you that," and he sauntered off up the path, whistling a jaunty tune, hardly limping at all, hands no longer naked.

Very soon he heard snarls. Lips drawn back from teeth hard enough and sharp enough to tear inch-thick hide. Sliding through the dark a pack of lupine, canine shadows. The biggest of these slunk to the dead centre of the path, blocking Walter's way with a primordial growl. The moonlight shone on the magnificent ruff and shoulders; a black German Shepherd, an old-style type of doubtless impeccable linage. It was a gorgeous beast. Walter didn't like animals as a general rule, but he liked dogs.

He clicked his tongue and whistled. An answering chorus of growls and whines told him that he was completely surrounded by perhaps eight or ten individuals. "I don't suppose," He said wistfully, "that I can talk you out of this?"

The pack leader responded with a warning rumble from deep within its chest.

"You know, I like dogs. Real dogs I mean, proper beasts like you, not those ratty yip-yip things."

Walter took a step forward. "Shepherds such as you and your friends…ridgebacks…huskies…all fine, fine breeds, your own German origins notwithstanding."

Another step resulted in a bowel-loosening growl that would have made the Beast of Gévaudan sound like a pansy.

"It's uncommon to see so many black Shepherds in the one place. I like dogs. I really do. Your protectiveness, your loyalty, your courage. All traits that I heartily approve of, indeed, rather admire." Step forward again. "Unswerving loyalty… I envy you your loyalty, your faith in your master. I lost my own faith very recently. It hurt. Oh, it hurt." The pack leader dropped its head and hunched down, every muscle in its body a coiled spring.

"But you see, I'm free now. I have love instead. Love is its own kind of faith and loyalty." Step. "What I'm about to do now is an act of love. To die for love…"

The beast sprang. It leapt straight into the gentle drift of wires. It yelped once and died horribly, shredded and broken. Blood and fur splattered unpleasantly across Walter's face. The rest of the pack milled about in confusion, trained for firearms and poison, not silent, scentless, invisible death. Instinct won. One by one they leapt into the wires and died like the first, until Walter faced the last remaining individual. It urinated in fear, crying as its paws scrabbled on the gravel.

"Please don't," said Walter, as it visibly gathered its courage. It attacked. Walter twitched his thumb and snicked off its head. "I really didn't want to do that," he said, stepping over slippery and broken flesh. A single survivor snapped at his ankles as he went past, but it was crippled and dying. He ignored it.

The gate in the fence was open, inviting him in.

A minute or two after the dogs he met the first and only ghoul.

It was old, years, perhaps decades had passed since it died, barely more than a skeleton held together with stringy sinew. It moved with a curiously delicate gait, reminiscent of nothing other than a moorhen picking its dainty way across the waterlilies. The bone gleamed in the moonlight, enough so that he could make out the phalanges filed into deadly points, the hard mass stuck to the inside of its ribcage that was probably the heart.

Walter stopped and stared, fascinated. He'd seen ghouls so decomposed that they shed lumps of rotting flesh with every step but he'd never seen one so deliberately preserved. It stood to reason, he supposed, that a kept vampire would in turn have to keep what little she was allowed very carefully. It approached. He could see glints of reflected light in certain joints, perhaps the moonlight off copper wire, and as it came closer he could just make out the deadly stain at the tips of its bone claws.

That was close enough. He flicked his hand fully expecting the skeleton to explode into ivory dust, but he flicked the wrong hand, his crippled hand and for the first time in the years since he'd mastered them, his wires turned on him.

Almost instantly he felt something soft and delicate brush his face, his shoulders. It took a second or two before the air struck nerves never meant to be touched and he gasped, his knees buckled under him as he felt blood spurt and the pain hit him like a tsunami. The dark suddenly blazed with shooting stars and years of fighter's instinct was the only thing that moved his good hand and saved his life. Scant feet from his eye, gaping bone jaws shattered.

Wheezing, he explored the wounds on his face and arm with gloved fingers, leather slipping over blood and meat. A cut across his cheekbone, underneath his eye patch, deep but short and mercifully away from the delicate tissues around his eye socket. The one across his upper arm was much more serious. It too, was deep rather than long but it went not only through, but actually under the muscle, lifting it off the bone.

The problem from retiring from active combat was that sooner or later, you forgot how much it actually hurt.

He fumbled in his pocket for the roll of soft bandage, holding the end with his teeth as he wrapped it around and around the wound. All the trouble he'd gone to selecting this ridiculous t-shirt, this uncomfortable pair of jeans and they were as good as destroyed!

He tied a knot in the bandage, leaving a good length free. If need be he'd use that extra length to strap his wounded arm to his body but for now at least, he still had some use of it, enough for his balance. He tucked the end of the bandage back into the layers. Took a deep breath. Licked some of the blood trickling over his mouth, spitting when he tasted dog hair and old bone. He stood up, groping blindly for something to lean on but there was nothing. He swayed off the path and crashed against a tree trunk and leant there, just breathing. It hurt. It hurt so much and he could feel his heart flutter, and his head swum from blood loss.

Eventually he rallied himself. Stood upright and walked, walked to the base of the massive stone keep. The huge double doors were open and yellow light streamed out, warm and inviting.

"Will you walk into my parlour, Angel of Death?"

She stood on the huge spiral staircase, flanked by two attendants. One was a plain girl, unhealthy-looking in a skinny sort of way, while the other was so androgynously beautiful that Walter found himself quite incapable of discerning its gender. Millarca's gown was in a style that had not been worn for two hundred years and the sea-green satin complimented her rich brown hair and highlighted her lustrous brown eyes.

"You are bleeding on my floor, Angel of Death."

Her skin was corpse pale.

"I know, Lady Millarca. My apologies."

"No need to apologise." She touched the tip of her tongue to her red, red lips. "I don't mind at all."

"I am sorry about your dogs."

She waved that aside. "One can always buy more," she said. Her attendants pressed themselves against her, whispering in her ear. "You should think yourself honoured. I rarely allow men into my house."

Walter flexed his good hand. "This is not your house, Lady Millarca. It belongs to the Austrian government, as do you yourself."

Millarca bared her teeth and hissed. "Low born Hellsing lackey."

He bowed.

"Your organisation killed my mother, my grandmother, their servants and my sisters. All of my family gone. A great and noble family that had persisted for centuries wiped out by a mad Dutchman and his pet Dracul. Now you're here to kill me. Wretched old man. Wretched," she spat, "Hellsing."

Walter shook his head. "I'm not Hellsing, not anymore. I'm afraid this is my own personal exercise. Indeed, if Sir Hellsing knew about this I'm certain that he would be extremely put out."

"Silly little man," Millarca said, "Give it up. You've lost so much blood that your heart is slowing down. I can hear it. You're done for. You won't live to see the dawn."

"I know," said Walter, and grinned.

"Kill him!"

The attendants advanced. The skinny girl leapt straight into the air and landed in front of him. Her jaw dropped, mouth stretching impossibly wide to show her tongue, smooth and slender and forked like a snake.

"Hungry, hungry," she crooned. "Hungry, I'm sooooo hungry." Her tongue flickered, tasting the air. "You smell delicious."

Walter yanked a length of wire from his rings. "You smell like carrion."

Snake-girl sniggered and began to circle. "Bleeder," she hissed, "bleeder, wounded, bleeding, wounding, raw meat fresh and steaming. I'll eat you alive, bleeding man, bleeding angel."

…_her hair was a rusty sort of brown, her lips were painted bright red. Her eyes were blue and down the back of her calves she'd drawn a line with eyeliner pencil, to make it look as if she was wearing stockings which she did not own. She was sixteen; he was fourteen, both of them forced by the war to grow up much too fast. She was his date. His first and his last…_

Walter, blind as he was in one eye, to keep turning have to keep turning to keep her in sight. Unfortunately this left his back open to Millarca and her other little disciple.

"Die!"

Something heavy struck his blind side, claws latching onto his arm and digging into his wound. He screamed and collapsed. The snake-girl was on top of him in a flash.

…_they had gone to see a movie, and during the newsreel it was all Walter could do to stop himself from laughing; old news, fake news, it may have been news but it certainly wasn't new to him…. _

"Not like this," Walter gasped as his bandage was torn off and a mouth fastened onto arm, tongue sliding underneath the loose flap of muscle. "Not like this," and he set his good knee against the stomach of the snake-girl as she grinned and began to press down, reaching in for his throat. "Not...like...this!" Every sinew in his body strained as he arched his back. Sweat poured off him; black began to seep into the edges of his vision. "Ah!" He snapped forward, hard and fast as he could. His forehead connected with snake-girl's nose in a devastating Liverpool kiss.

Bone crunched and sparks shot behind his eyes. There was a high-pitched scream that he barely registered as coming from his victim and she fell off of him, clutching her face. From his belt he pulled his knife and drove it into the thing latched onto his arm.

Silver blade, forged in holy water and blessed anew with each fold of the steel. A sizzling sound and he twisted his head to see that he'd stabbed the creature in the eye socket. It flung itself backwards with a shriek, yanking the knife out of his hand, clawing helplessly at the handle. Foul smoke poured from its mouth and it went into convulsions, dripping black ichor as its face began to melt.

…_after the movie they had gone to a dance, run by the local Christian Women's Organisation. She was a pious little thing and so was he. Her friends had fused over him- such hair, such skin, so pretty!- and he hadn't minded at all. His girl was proud to have such a handsome date, and for his part, he was delighted to feel the skirts of her best dress brushing gently across his knees as they danced. He was, of course, an excellent dancer…_

"Bastard!" screamed snake-girl. "You fucking murdering bastard!" He struggled to his feet, gasping for air. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Of course I'm a murderer," he snarled, "I'm the Angel of Death, you sad little freak! I'm going to cut you into a thousand pieces and send you to Hell and when you get there _tell them I sent you!"_

Snake-girl stared at him wildly, tongue flickering behind her teeth. Then she turned and ran.

"No, you will not!" Walter reached out. His hand was clumsy, but three of the five wires made contact. Snake-girl screamed as a vertical slash exposed yellow vertebrae. She fell forward. The second wire buried itself in the skimpy flesh of her breasts. The third slapped against her head and took off the top of her skull. She hit the floor with a crunch. She landed, twitching and bleeding with her brains oozing out all over the floor. She landed dead.

…_after the dance they got into the truck that Walter had borrowed- without permission, it had to be said- and drove to the lookout so they could see the lights of the city. The air raid sirens started to scream. The lights blinked off, one by one. His girl had shuddered and moved closer to him, huddling for comfort…_

Walter looked up to the top of the stairs. "Millarca," he whispered. The vampire turned and fled in a rustle of satin, leaving him to wrestle with his wires. Two were free and he retracted them easily, but one was still embedded in snake-girl's chest and the other two were tangled hopelessly in the wood of the staircase banister. He yanked helplessly at them, swearing softly but explicitly. He didn't have time for this. Millarca was certain to come back with a gun and blow his brains out at any second. Walter frowned, considering. It was the thumb, forefinger and smallest finger that were caught. He tugged them off with his teeth, spitting out the little pieces of hair and flesh that splattered his gloves between each one. The rings clicked when they hit the flagstones. They lay there for just a second, then the internal mechanism kicked in and the wires retracted, sending the rings bouncing across the stone. Walter's bad arm was soaked in blood from the shoulder to the tips of the fingers and the blood made the leather  
of his glove slick and smooth. He transferred the thumb and finger rings to his good hand. It wasn't a good fit of course, because each ring had been painstakingly tailored for each individual finger, but it sufficed. Walter grinned as he pulled the knife out of the androgynous disciple's face and tucked it into his belt.

…_he was fourteen, but he'd been around soldiers for a very long time. He was fourteen; he knew what men and women did. He was fourteen, he put his arms around her and they kissed. When he squeezed her shoulders she moaned. When he touched her knee she squirmed. When he touched her breast she stiffened and pushed his hands away because she was a good Christian girl and in those days, good Christian girls didn't do those sorts of things…_

"Oh, Miallarcaaaaaa!" he sang, "I'm coming, ready or not!" Not a word, not a whisper in reply. He staggered to the foot of the staircase, dragging his numb foot behind him. He stopped to tug fruitlessly at one of the dangling rings, but the wire was tangled and buried deep in the wood. He left it there. If he had time he'd retrieve it later.

"Millarca! I'm going to put you in your grave and you'll _stay_there for all eternity!" He coughed. When he reached the top of the staircase he leant against the wall, gasping. Before him stretched a long stone hall lined with doors.

"I know you're there, you lesbian bitch! I can_ smell_ you!" He staggered forward. "Come out," he gasped. He swayed and crashed against a door. It opened and he fell into the room, onto the floor, screaming when his own weight tore the wound on his arm even further. The blood gushed. "Oh God. Oh God in Heaven." He forced himself up on his knees. He was completely soaked in blood and for the first time in his life, most of it was his. "Millarca!"

_...he grabbed her wrists, and pinned them above her head. He slapped her when she protested, and from his pocket he pulled a little knife… _

He looked around wildly. The room was empty apart from a huge old four poster bed, mouldering gently in the corner. It appeared in the doorway, then, an elegantly monstrous black cat. It crept towards him, huge head dipping to lap at the blood pooling on the stones. Walter shuddered and collapsed face down. He heard the slither of satin and hands of astonishing strength rolled him over. Millarca smiled sweetly, delicate fangs glittering saliva, getting closer, closer…

"_You're_the one who is about to die, Angel of Death," she whispered.

…_he held it to her throat and he was going to rape her, cut her to pieces and he had never wanted to do anything so badly in all his life. He heard the soft pop as the tip of the knife broke the skin. She began to cry, beautiful blue eyes wide…_

He drove his blessed dagger into her neck. She screamed. She staggered backwards, colliding with one of the bed posts. She kept screaming as his wires sang, lashing her firmly to the wood. He forced himself to his feet. He couldn't breath and when he tried to stand he slipped in his own blood and fell again. He crawled. He crawled to her. He gripped great handfuls of her dress and used it to pull himself up until he was looking into her face. It had aged thirty years in mere seconds. It was only because he was so close to her mouth that he could hear her whisper.

…_and the monster knew that he faced a choice: he could do this and become another sort of monster, and that he'd do it again and again and again and each time it would be worse because he'd get better at it. He wanted too. He wanted to so badly that he shook…_

"What did I ever do to you?"

"You exist."

…_the monster made his choice. He let the girl go._

He grasped the hilt of the dagger and yanked it out. More blood across his face and Millarca whimpered helplessly. With the very last of his strength he fastened his mouth onto the scalding wound and drank.


	10. Samson: VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die-die, sweetly die-into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit."_

_"Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die-die, sweetly die-into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit."_

-from "Carmilla" by J. Sheridan LeFanu

* * *

"Wake up."

_He is in the practice field, and the sensation of a full ten set of working rings on his fingers is both unfamiliar and deeply thrilling. Arthur beside him; tall Arthur bending down to whisper in his ear: _that's the target…._a great India-rubber dummy thirty metres in front of him. The dummy is vaguely shaped, clumsy limbs and bulging torso but the face, the face is human. _Take off its head, _whispers Arthur._

"Wake up."

_He has to wear gloves underneath the rings; although they are exquisitely engineered for his fingers and his fingers only, the makers had decided to allow room for growth. He is, after all, only eleven years-old. Arthur has retreated to the other side of the concrete wall where he and his brother and a few others peer out from behind a thick plate __of__ glass. Walter can do what he likes; here's hoping that he doesn't __cut__ his own ear off. _

"Angel of Death, wake up!"

_He received his first ring when he was six, his second at seven, his third and fourth at eight. Two more rings at ten and another at ten-and-a-half and now he has the remaining three. He couldn't be more filled with pride. __Arthur sings out, _careful now. _He raises his hands at the dummy with the human face…_

"Wake up! Wake up now!"

…_he takes off its head._

Walter woke up. He ached. He ached with the kind of hurt that starts deep within the bone marrow and radiates out. With an effort he raised his head, breaking the stickiness that seemed to be gluing him to the floor. All he could see was satin fabric and his hand was hanging absurdly in the air, strung on something.

Strung on his wires.

He sat up. He was sore all over, dried blood sticking skin to clothes and clothes to the stone floor. His mouth was full of blood, all he could smell was blood and his jeans seemed tighter than they should be and his gloves were definitely a size too small. Wrenching at the metal, he took off his rings, forcing them over fingers that were suddenly fleshy. He stripped off his gloves. Finally, he looked up.

Millarca stood before him, still bound in his wires, her beautiful satin dress maroon with blood. The change was astonishing; she was old and wrinkled and fragile as though she were a hundred years old. Walter stared at her. Then he was overwhelmed with such a feeling of joy and affection that he threw his arms around her and buried his face in her skirts.

"Lady Millarca," he said, "mistress," nuzzling in the approximate location of her kneecaps.

"There's no time for that," croaked the old woman, "the sun will rise in an hour. If you have any intention of leaving here you'd better do it quickly."

Humming, Walter set himself to unpicking the tangle of wires that bound Millarca to the bedpost. His fingers were nimble and the paralysis down his side had disappeared entirely. As he untangled the wires one by one he slid the rings back on, all perfect fits now that he'd regained the muscle tone lost from his bitter, losing battle with old age.

With the last of the wires gone Millarca heaved a great sigh and fell forward into his arms. He smiled at her and stroked her withered cheek. "I've never had a mother before," he said.

Millarca's eyes were almost lost in the folds of wrinkles, but he could still see the flash of rage in them. "Child of rape," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"Liar."

He picked her up easily. She seemed to weigh nothing at all and Walter was struck by the sudden whimsy that if it weren't for her heavy dress she's float away entirely. He tried a few dance moves as he went down the hallway, a bastardised kind of waltz but stopped when Millarca snapped that he was making her dizzy. At the top of the great spiral staircase he set her down and set to rescuing those rings still tangled in the banister. The wire slipped unexpectedly, slicing his forefinger all the way to bone. Without thinking he stuck it in his mouth and promptly fell to his knees.

"Ngh," he said, when the shivers finally stopped and he was able to open his eyes. "Vampire masturbation," he said sheepishly, "Oh my."

There was a wheeze from the desiccated woman at the top of the stairs. It might have been anything from a laugh to a disgusted snort.

His rings retrieved, Walter set to breaking the banister in all the areas his wires had cut. He shouldn't have been surprised at his own strength but he was. He took a long shard of wood and paced down to where snake-girl and her androgynous companion lay. The head of the later was a liquid mess of nasty-smelling goo. He nudged the cadaver with his foot; it seemed disinclined to protest at this treatment so he moved onto snake-girl, where he was forced to give an admiring whistle. With the top of her head lopped off and massive wounds to her back and chest- as he pulled the last of his rings free he couldn't help but notice that the tip of the wire was buried in her heart- she had still managed to drag herself a few fruitless metres before collapsing and withering in much the same way Millarca had. He patted the dry corpse on the shoulder.

"You're a fighter, I'll grant you that," and then he pushed the wood through her heart and crushed what remained of her skull underfoot, just to be certain. From the top of the stairs came the dry sound of Millarca weeping.

"I did love them," she whispered, "they weren't worth much but they were my granddaughters and I loved them."

"I know," said Walter, coming to sit beside her. He touched her mouth and snatched back his fingers when she tried to bite them off. She looked at the sharp piece of wood he held in his hand.

"I'll come back. I always do. Some things are hard to kill and others just won't stay dead."

"Is there a furnace here?"

"Yes."

"Then there will be no getting up for you," said Walter gently, "not anymore."

Millarca blinked hard and swallowed. "Oh," she said. "Oh." She raised her hand like she was reaching for something. Walter caught it and held it between his own. "Do you promise?" Something sad and relieved flashed across her eyes.

"I promise," he touched her mouth again and this time she didn't try to bite him.

"Do you know," said Millarca dreamily, "that after all this time I still miss Laura? Does that sound strange?"

"No. It doesn't sound strange at all."

"Angel of Death. You can't be amongst the living now."

"I know."

"Is she very beautiful? This woman you love, the one you did this for?"

"She is very beautiful, Lady Millarca. Beautiful and well-bred, aristocratic to her fingertips. You'd certainly approve," and he set the stake against her chest and pushed. Millarca smiled and died.

In the basement he found the furnace, ancient, hulking and glowering. He stoked the fire with coal and with the wood he'd shattered from the banister. It very quickly glowed white hot, and when he threw in the dry husks of the vampire and her granddaughters there was a quiet, emphatic 'whoomph.' There'd be no getting up for the Countess Karnstein. Not ever again.

Also in the basement he found a tin of petrol and thankfully, some matches to replace the ones that he'd hopelessly ruined with his own blood. When he took off his eye patch the muscle was stronger, but still not strong enough. With a deep sense of satisfaction he put his monocle back on, not caring that it made for a very strange fashion statement with his jeans and shirt.

The moon had just set by the time he left the building, swinging the can of petrol, and the sky was the deep, violent purple that comes just before dawn. There was a screech of tyres and the roar of an engine and the sound of a violent stop.

Walter slipped through the bushes.

The car had pulled up at the place he'd killed the dogs, and a man, a vampire, Millarca's servant by the looks of it, had gotten out and was obviously trying to figure out what had happened. A single surviving animal licked pitifully at the servant's fingers as he murmured softly at it, touching its wounds as he tried to figure out what had caused them.

"It was me," said Walter, advancing. He smiled.

The servant stared at him wildly. "What did you do to them?"

"I killed them, obviously."

"Don't fuck with me! What did you do to the Countess? What did you do to my family?"

"I killed them, too."

"You cunt. You fucking cunt," snarled the servant vampire. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. "I'm going to kill you, you cunt…" something glinted in the air. The gun exploded into pieces and he screamed, blood gushing from his hand.

"No," said Walter calmly. "You are_ not_ going to kill me._ I'm_ going to kill _you,_ if you don't co-operate." The servant vampire stared at his shredded fingers, whimpering quietly. Walter snarled impatiently. The vampire was flying through the air before he'd even realised that Walter had moved. "Now you listen to me very carefully. Your family is dead but on the upside, you're still alive and you are free of Millarca. If you want to_ stay_ alive, you're going to do what I tell you. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

"Good. Now get up. You and I are going for a little drive," and Walter splashed petrol all over the mound of dog corpses. The lone surviving animal snapped helplessly at him as he wrung its neck.

The other vampire hauled himself to his feet and leant against the car, gasping. "Where are we going?"

"To get breakfast," said Walter. "What's your name, by the way?"

"John."

"Well John, I'm starving. Let's go."

A match was tossed on the funeral pyre, and the air was filled with the stink of burning fur and meat. They got into the car. Walter drove, even though John's hand had healed. The former butler hummed absently to himself as he steered the car through the winding forest road. He was conscious of John's smell, of all things, the scent of him, equal parts prey, equal parts irritant and he remembered that vampires could be violently territorial. Walter tentatively explored his new extended canine teeth with the tip of his tongue and promptly cut himself. He sucked meditatively at the little wound. The blood tasted like blood; there was no change from the way he remembered it, salty and coppery and strong, but it was now indescribably delicious and even the tiniest drop seemed to stroke every nerve in his body with an intense, sensual pleasure. No wonder vampires often acted like they were drug addicts. The smell of the old blood trapped between the beads of the necklace wrapped around his wrist was tantalising. He could feel the need gradually building, pressing up against his spine, tensing around his jaws. He glanced sideways at John, realising that he was wondering what the man tasted like.

"Something funny?" John asked sullenly.

"Oh, absolutely," said Walter, who had been grinning. "I just realised that you've been a vampire for decades and I've only been one for a few hours, yet _you're_ frightened of me. Why is that? Aren't you going to try and rip my head off?" John said nothing. "Oh, don't be like that. You're free now. Free of Millarca, free from the Austrian government. Why are you upset?"

And John said, "I loved the Countess, and I loved my daughters," with a kind of sad dignity and for the first time Walter felt the faintest stirrings of guilt. His mouth twitched. He stared out through the black-tinted windscreen, at the gathering dawn and then slammed his foot hard on the brake pedal.

"Get out," he said.

"What?"

"If you want to live, get out of the car and start running. I might or might not follow you. If you want to die, stay here. I'm feeling rather hungry and you look strangely appetising."

John didn't move.

"I said _leave!"_

"It's all right," said John softly as Walter turned to him. "It's all right," as Walter reached out and griped his shoulder hard enough to make the bones creak, "it's all right," and Walter realised that they both were crying.

And afterwards, John dissolved into dust motes that sparked and danced in the air while his soul fluttered against Walter's heart like a little bird.

With the sun a few inches above the horizon he abandoned the car just outside of a town, walked into the silent rows of houses, looking, assessing. His eyes hurt and his face stung but he wasn't smoking or breaking out into flames. It seemed that he had some small tolerance for daylight, more than the average Dracul, but it was best not to push things.

All around him the silent suburbia slept. Standing outside a house he could_ hear _the heartbeats of its occupants, _smell _their breath. He kept walking slowly, until at last he came to a house where there were no heartbeats, no smell of stale teeth and saliva. The owners of the house were away, and had been for a while, but Walter knew that inside would be everything he needed.

He looked all around him, instinctively checking for watchers even though he knew that he'd hear them long before he saw them, and jumped into the garden.

The windows in front were locked, as were the doors. Around the side of the house he went and into the backyard with its scrubby garden. He saw a small stone sitting incongruously next to the door and rolled his eyes. Surely not. Surely the owners weren't that predictable?

They were. Walter retrieved the spare key from its hiding place and let himself in. No alarm systems either. The house was small and smelled like mothballs and age. The couple living here were probably pensioners in the last years of their life, surviving on charity and a government pittance. They did, however, possess a washing machine and clothes dryer. Walter stripped down then and there and dropped his blood-saturated garments into the machine, and wandered about the house cheerfully bare-naked until he found the meagre bathroom. He turned the shower up to scalding and simply stood under it, his eyes closed as the water came pounding down and washed his sins away. After the warm water ran out and his clothes were clean and dry, and he'd carefully wiped away all the traces of his presence he could find, he climbed up on top of a table and pulled himself into the access panel for the crawlspace beneath the roof. He closed the panel behind him and chose the furthest, darkest corner. He crawled into it, arranged the pink fibreglass insulation so that he was hidden as much as possible and there, he curled up in a ball and slept like the dead.

* * *

He heard voices.

Walter stirred slowly, surfacing from black, sticky dreams that clung to him like tar. He had dreamed that he was dead, that he had spoken to someone important to him. They'd been angry…

He snapped awake.

"I tell you, someone's been here," the language was Austrian German. Not his best German dialect, but he knew enough to get by. "I don't know how I know. I just do. Someone came in while we were gone…"

Walter yawned and stretched luxuriously, wiggling his fingers and toes with pleasure. He knew that the sun had almost set, that the dark was just about to fall. He knew it in the same way that he knew his own name, that he knew he was a hunter, that he knew he was hungry; it was programmed into his brainstem and he didn't even consider questioning it. He sat up, cocked his head and listened. His hosts were the early to bed type; he could hear them pottering about, opening cupboards and running taps, trying to figure out where all the hot water had gone.

"Someone has been here. A stranger has been in our house."

The old woman, fearful and querulous. Her husband did his best to soothe her and convince her that she was just imagining things- nothing had been moved, nothing had been taken, there was no place for an intruder to hide that they hadn't checked- but Walter could hear the nervousness, the doubt. And just as Walter knew instinctively that the sun had set, the ancient couple knew, somehow, that something dangerous had wandered into their little house _and that it was still there. _

Walter considered how quickly he had shifted from a vampire hunter to a Dracul, and then shrugged. He didn't feel inclined to embark on an Ann Rice-esk marathon of angst and regret. All things considered, vampirism was sociopathy with better dental work. He had never thought himself a sociopath, but then, many, many people had suggested otherwise during the years. Usually they'd been covered in their own blood.

Blood. Now there was a thought. Some breakfast would be nice.

The clattering below slowed, and eventually came to a stop. There was the creak of mattress springs and the sound of slow, shallow breathing. Walter crawled across the wooden beams to the access panel. He shifted the plywood aside and lightly jumped down to the tabletop.

There was a frightened gasp. Walter turned around. It was pitch black but he could see as clearly as day, see the old woman, barely more than ten years older than himself, hand pressing to her chest. Shaking. Too terrified to scream.

"It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered getting down off the table and gliding towards her. "I'll be gone soon. Just a little something and I'll be gone. You'll never know I was here." He took her hand in his, her skin warm and dry and powder-soft. "Let's go into the kitchen."

Mesmerised, she let him lead her. She was crying, he could smell it, and her heart was fluttering dangerously. Through the darkened rooms and into the kitchen. Light from a streetlamp shone in through the window, glinting off metal as Walter slid the knife drawer open.

"Please don't hurt me," breathed the old woman.

"I won't. All I want- all I need- is for you to make a little cut." Deliberately he turned his head, lifted his upper lip so that she could see his fangs in the streetlight.

She took the knife from him, set it across her wrist. It didn't seem to occur to her to use it against Walter. Maybe she was too afraid. Maybe she was simply hypnotised. Sound of skin breaking, smell of blood. It was only a little wound, a little blood, but it was enough. Walter took the knife from her and knelt. He tenderly pressed his mouth to the cut and they stayed like that, Walter shivering gently. This blood was nowhere near as powerful as vampire blood, not nearly as sustaining, without the same kick, but it was enough.

When clots started forming he reluctantly let go. He stood and wiped the knife on his trousers, put it back in its drawer. The old woman's heart was weak but still strong enough that what she'd endured would not endanger her. Humans were predictable; Walter would lay money that by morning she would be convinced that the whole episode was a particularly vivid nightmare, that the cut on her wrist had come from something unimportant and mundane, something like gardening perhaps. When he was part of Hellsing he had never ceased to be amazed at the lengths humans went to explain the unexplainable.

He said, "I thank you for your hospitality," and bowed politely. He let himself out, leaving the woman standing speechless and shell shocked behind him.

Out in the street he stopped and stared at the moon. He absently took off his monocle and polished it on his shirt and as he did so, he realised that he didn't need it anymore. He wound up to throw it away, and then stopped. He stared at it for a minute and then, for reasons he couldn't explain, slipped it into his pocket. Walking on, in a matter of minutes he found an old car, obviously someone's pride and joy, one that didn't have a built in computer and thus, one amenable to an old-fashioned hot-wiring. He looked around. This town was small and quiet and as it was the residential district there were no surveillance cameras. The car window broke easily under his fist and in the boot he discovered a basic tool kit. It was the work of a minute to swap the license plates with another car further on down the street, and four hours later he was in Ravanna.


	11. Samson: VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _She's just so under pain_

_She's just so under pain_

_I'm so spaced out today_

_My head's a lead weight_

_And it comes _

_To you_

_From the sea_

_Hello hello oh hello_

_(The world repeats itself somehow)_

_She know she knows oh she knows_

_(The world repeats itself somehow)_

_Only just beginning to know_

_She's only just beginning to know_

_There's just no oxygen_

_Why can't we just fall in _

_In the sea_

-'From the Sea' by Eskimo Joe

* * *

The villa was surrounded by scrubby brush and hillocks of ancient seashells. Ten kilometres away the ocean made love to the beach and Walter could smell it, hear it as though he was right there in front of the water. He felt the pounding through the soles of his feet and shuddered with pleasure. The air was warm and completely still and somehow tactile, like velvet.

Walter chewed on his cigarette thoughtfully and watched the solider on patrol stroll past, three feet away from his nose. It appeared that Sir Hellsing had been borrowing personnel from the Italian government. They lacked, to say the least. He had been sitting in this highly uncomfortable bush for quite some time now and no one had any idea he was there. It was if everyone in the world was suddenly blind and deaf or, conversely, he could suddenly see and hear where he'd never been able to before. Everything was brilliant and focused and intense.

Take the unlit cigarette, for example. In the years since he'd quit smoking he'd never forgotten how good it felt, how the smoke tasted, the sensation of the paper on his lips. Now, he could taste so much more. The tobacco was infinitely richer and more complex, a hundred different tastes because every shred of leaf in the cylinder was chemically distinct and vying with each other and with the fibres in the filter and even with the paper that wrapped it. Strong as the cigarette smelt it was nothing compared to the oblivious soldiers that kept wandering past: aftershave and sweat and food caught between their teeth, faeces even, if their hygiene was lacking. The chemicals they used to wash their hair and their clothes, the oil of their guns and, most overwhelming of all, the smell of meat and blood and food.

He yawned and checked his watch. In approximately five seconds a solider would step out from behind those bushes, continue straight ahead for six paces, turn ninety degrees to the left, make an undignified little hop across the drainage ditch and then continue straight ahead for another twenty paces before turning one hundred and eighty degrees to the right and marching off out of sight behind the gardens.

Three, two, one, and right on cue the solider emerged to continue his self-important little march. Whoever set these patrols needed their throat cut. Any halfwit could sneak past these dolts. Their commander wasn't worth the material his uniform was made of. Still, Walter wasn't complaining; it just made his task all the easier. Eighteen paces, nineteen, twenty. The solider disappeared and Walter darted after him. The solider didn't have time to cry out before a hand clamped across his nose and mouth, and an arm like iron wrapped around his waist, preventing him from drawing his weapon. He thrashed a little before passing out and Walter picked the young man up and carried him over his shoulders to where he'd left the other three soldiers, all hog-tied, gagged, and unconscious. Life would be so much simpler, he rather thought, if he could just slice everyone in his path to little slivers with his wires but the simple fact was that if Sir Hellsing knew that another set of rings existed in the world he'd send Alucard himself after them. Walter was not quite up to par for that yet so instead he pocketed a couple of pistols and some ammunition and destroyed the walkie-talkies that each solider wore on their belts. Checking his watch again he saw that there would be approximately six minutes before the patrolling soldiers were missed.

The villa was wide and spacious, single story and built in a U around a central courtyard. In that courtyard, under the brilliant floodlights and surrounded by the invisible stink of mosquito coils, was his baby girl, his Integra, made pettish by the unaccustomed heat and misbehaving badly.

With her wild hair glowing under the spotlights she scowled and pouted and crossed her arms firmly under her breasts. Despite the late hour she flatly refused to settle and Pickman and one of the nurses were doing their best to calm her down with bowls of chilled watermelon. It wasn't working. The nurse picked up a spoon and tried to lead by example, crunching on a big mouthful with an exaggerated smile. Integra hated watermelon, always had, even when she was a little girl and Walter found himself shaking his head ruefully as Pickman made aeroplane noises and tried to fly the spoon into her mouth. He succeeded only in smearing juice down the side of her face as Integra clamped her lips firmly shut. Pickman exchanged an exasperated look with the nurse just as the timed device that Walter had set in the fuse box blew, plunging the villa into darkness. The vampire could see just fine but the sudden change in light left the humans blind.

He darted forward. With supernatural speed and silence he was amongst them and they never knew he was there. Belting Pickman unconscious as he went past, he wrapped his arm around Integra and put his hand across her mouth. In less time than it takes to say it, Integra was spirited away.

Walter ran. He ran flat out until he was deep in the scrub and underneath the drumming of his feet he could feel the drumming of her heart, only stopping his flight when she began to whimper. Whining pathetically in the back of her throat she did her best to struggle free, twisting her limbs and trying to bite his hand. She was so fragile and delicate; Walter knew that he could break her glass bones with the mere flex of his fingers.

"Hush now, baby girl," he breathed, "hush now, my dear one," and she jerked as though she'd been electrocuted. He loosened his grip and held his breath. She was silent for a moment, and then:

"Warlter!"

Twisting around she groped her way up his body, unintentionally smacking him on the nose. She flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

"Warlter!" she said, "Warlter!"

He buried his face in her shoulder and shook. "Let's run away together," he whispered. "Just you and I, someplace where they'll never find us," and he gulped great lungfuls of her odour, her scent. "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"Warlter," she said, "you left me. Why? Why?"

"I'm_never _leaving you again," and froze as she slid her hands across his neck and down the sides of his face. She was so warm it almost seemed like she was on fire, but really, it wasn't her that was warm, it was he that was cold, cold as the grave. She ran her burning palms over the smooth skin around his eyes and pushed her burning fingers into his mouth, pressing against his fangs. The foot that thumped against his shin didn't hurt him, but it did surprise him into letting go.

Integra stumbled backwards, gasping. Despite the fact that her mortal eyes couldn't see his youthful features in the dark, despite the fact that she was barely half the woman she once was, despite her injuries, despite everything, he could tell by her face that she knew what he was. She knew.

"Please don't run," he begged her as she turned to flee. "Please don't be scared," as she promptly tripped over a log and went sprawling headlong into the ground, knocking off her glasses in the process. "I love you." She whipped her head around desperately, trying to see.

"Get away," she hissed, "get away, get away," and Walter wondered if she was talking to him or herself. Groping produced a slender fallen branch. Clambering to her feet, she swung it around wildly. He avoided it with ease as she thrashed at the air. He could smell her, smell her in the same way he had smelt those brainless patrol soldiers, smell her sweat of exertion and fear and he _wanted_her, wanted her in a way that went far beyond food or lust or power or love and instead was something that was all four at once and far stronger than any single one of them. He wanted her soul. He wanted to swallow it and press it against his heart like he had with the vampire John; he wanted to bathe in it like the ocean; he wanted to hold it tender against his chest and never, ever let go.

"I love you," and Walter meant it.

The branch whistled through the air and cracked against a tree truck. She hit the tree again and again until the branch shattered. Sobbing in fear and rage she stumbled again, desperately scrabbling for another weapon.

"A fighter, aren't you," and he bent down to catch her hands in his. Licking at the blood oozing from her palms, he tugged a splinter out with his teeth.

"Get away!"

"No."

"I suggest you do what the lady tells you to do," and Walter sighed and stood up, raising his hands in surrender at the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked at his head. There was a crackle and a hiss, and a flare bloomed in the middle of the clearing.

"I thought I knocked you out," he said.

"You did," replied Christopher Pickman, tossing his night vision goggles aside as Integra whined and rubbed at her eyes.

"I knew that you weren't a normal human," said Walter with a certain grim satisfaction, turning around to face Pickman, his features painted a hellish red in the flare's light. "The speed I can understand, but how did you find us so quickly?" Pickman said nothing. "There's a transmitter sewn into her clothes, isn't there?"

"Walter. Walter C. Dornez, called the Angel of Death, called the Reaper, called the Trash Man, formerly of Hellsing, I order you to surrender."

"I should have anticipated the transmitter. Ah well, we all make mistakes."

"Get down on the ground, cross your ankles and put your hands behind your head."

"We live and learn, after all."

"I said, get down on the ground!"

"Well, some of us do, anyway."

"On the ground now, or I'll shoot!"

"Shan't," said Walter, and grinned.

Pickman pulled the trigger, but Walter was no longer there. Integra screamed and clamped her hands over her ears.

"So what are you anyway? What makes you, you?" he asked conversationally, looking down upon Pickman from his lofty perch in a tree. "Genetic engineering, chemical or biological implants, good, old-fashioned selective breeding?" The younger man swung his gun around frantically, trying to figure out where the vampire had gone. "You're certainly nowhere near _my_league, of course, but you're definitely better than the average human. Faster without a doubt."

"Walter, listen to me. You're not thinking clearly. You haven't been for a long time. You're suffering from the early stages of dementia, caused by your strokes. If you come with me, we can sort this whole thing out. Since you're obviously no longer physically incapacitated, I'm sure that Sir Hellsing would jump at the chance you have you at the organization again."

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Walter. "He'll have me killed. Do you think I went to all this effort just so that upstart can give Alucard some target practice?" Pickman stepped up next to Integra and touched her shoulder, making soothing noises. "Get your hands _off_of her, you miserable little mongrel whelp."

In reply Pickman slid his arm around her. "I have my orders to protect this woman," he said grimly, "no matter the cost," and he backed up them both up against a tree trunk, putting himself in front of Integra.

Walter snarled, and tightened his grip on the branch until the wood creaked. He prepared to jump but at the very last second he stopped and whipped his head around. Someone was coming.

"Walter, I'm telling you to surrender, now!"

"Friend of yours?" asked the Angel of Death with smug malice, as the nurse stumbled into the clearing.

"Christopher, what are you doing?" she said, waving a handheld GPS unit in the air. "What are you doing out here? Is that- is that a _gun?"_

Walter laughed. He dropped from his branch like a stone on top of the woman, gathered her to his chest and held tight. Her attempt to scream was cut short by him slapping her.

"_Fuck!"_yelled Pickman.

"Isn't this a bit of bother," said Walter lazily. "What are you going to do now, pup?"

"Let her go! Let her go, or I'll swear to God, I'll blow your fucking brains out."

"Watch your language," snapped Walter, "Integra is a lady." The nurse began to cry. "Stop caterwauling, woman." Pickman swallowed and aimed his gun at Walter's forehead. His hand was shaking. "Are you afraid of me, boy?"

"Of course I'm afraid of you."

"Good," he said. Abruptly he shoved the nurse away. He whipped one of the pistols he'd stolen off the soldiers from his belt and aimed it at the crying woman. "Choose," he said flatly.

He pulled the trigger.

Two shots rang out. Walter dodged the bullet from Pickman's gun, shooting the nurse in the leg at the same time. Pickman yelled and lunged forward to protect his lover, but was, of course, too late. Walter knocked the gun out of his hand and grabbed the younger man by the throat, throwing him against a tree.

"And_that _is why you're no match for me. _That_is why you'll never be anything than a pale imitation of me. _That_is why you. Are. Unworthy. Of. Being. _Hellsing!"_ Walter strode forward. Pickman blinked stupidly through the blood running into his eyes. "Once you are a member of Hellsing you care about nothing else. _Nothing else!" _Walter took a handful of hair and hauled him up. "Stupid boy, don't you understand? Your only love is violence, your only lovers Great Britain and the Protestant Church, your only master Sir Hellsing! When you receive orders you obey and you lay your life down protect what must be protected and you _certainly_don't sleep with the hired help!"

"Warlter!" Integra flung herself forward. "Warlter, stop!" She wrapped her arms around him, her hands dancing across his belt, pressing her face against his neck. Walter was startled into letting Pickman go.

"Integra," he started to say, then just as quickly she moved backwards again. She held a gun in her hands, the second gun he'd tucked into his belt. His heart thumped painfully as she took a familiar stance, legs wide, the gun held at arm's length. He smiled sadly. She pulled the trigger.

There was a soft click.

"The safety lock is on," he said gently as she keened and pulled the trigger, over and over again. "I'm proud of you for trying, though." He took the gun off of her easily and tossed it aside. She shrieked in rage and hammered her fists against his chest as he gathered her into his arms. A soft gasp made him look around. Pickman was slumped against a tree, either dead or close enough to it. The nurse clutched at her leg, covered in blood shining purple in the red light of the flare.

"Please don't kill me," she whispered.

Walter looked at her. "The amount of blood on the ground suggests that the bullet hit an artery. My apologies, madam, but unless help arrives in approximately ten minutes, I'm afraid you're already done for." The flare spluttered and died. He muffled Integra's screams and walked off.

When he was within sight of the ocean he set her down again on a patch of soft grass, and she swayed helplessly because he'd almost smothered her. He stripped off her clothes and pressed her down to the ground. She recovered herself enough to bite him hard on the ear as he sank his teeth into her neck. Blood flowed into his mouth and he fell into her, like falling into a whirlpool, like falling off a cliff.

On the way down he met Alucard.

* * *

  
_Everything was an intense and blinding red, throbbing like a heartbeat and in the air was the shrieking of a thousand agonised souls. He stood in a vast cavern filled with people fighting desperately and fucking viciously, tearing great strips of skin off their partners, breaking limbs and shattering skulls. Eye sockets gaping empty and weeping blood, they fought desperately for lives that had ended centuries ago._

"_I'm in Hell."_

"_Not quite," said Alucard, "but it suffices."_

_Walter looked up. The ancient vampire sat on a dais, primly cross-legged as he surveyed the carnage that was his domain. _

"_Why am I here?"_

"_My blood is in her, remember? My blood in her veins, your idea, my blood to repair the damage that was done." Alucard laughed. "Angel of Death, you continue to surprise me. Here's me thinking that you would hold grimly onto the shreds of your humanity until the day you died."_

_Walter shook his head. "I forsook my humanity with the first human life I ended. Maybe even before that."_

"_Your principles, then."_

"_My principles, as you put it, are no longer important."_

_Alucard leaned forward on his throne, and all around Walter the captive souls wailed their madness. "What changed?"_

"_Integra."_

* * *

And Integral Wingates Fairbrook Hellsing died.

Walter came back to himself. Underneath him, the corpse of the second person he had ever loved began to cool. Shuddering uncontrollably, weeping, he touched her vacant face. The torn flesh of his ear itched as it began to mend and he wiped his own blood from her mouth. He tried to speak but his throat choked around his tears and instead he pressed his lips to her cheek.

He gathered her up into his arms and walked down to the beach. The sand was soft and squeaked. This irritated him so he kicked off his shoes and socks and walked along the water's edge, the sea wrapping itself around his feet and then dancing away like a coy lover.

Walter walked. He walked with his Integra in his arms, following the beach, walking for hours until finally the sky began to lighten and he saw a tiny cottage, barely hidden behind the sand dunes. He set her down onto the sand, just out of reach of the water, and went to do what he had to do.

The door to the cottage wasn't locked. It was a tiny, ramshackle little thing, built before zoning laws and millionaires chasing the perfect view of the ocean. The land it was on was probably worth enough to feed a small family for a dozen years, but when Walter entered it was obvious that the cottage was kept for love and not money. Snores came from the camper bed set against the wall of the single bedroom. An old man by the smell of it. Walter leant over him. The old man's eyes snapped open.

"Who are you?" he said in querulous Italian. "Get out! Get out!" and Walter said nothing, did nothing, as the old man gasped and clutched his chest and thumped futilely at his heart. The old man died, and just as silently as he had entered, Walter left again and went back down to the beach.

The tide was coming in, and it lapped at Integra's knees as she sat up, blinking at him and wiping the sand from her face.

"Warlter?" she said.

"I'm here," he replied. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "I'm here, and I'm never leaving you."

In the cottage he ran the shower until he judged it warm enough, pushing Integra into the little cubical. Despite his cajoling she crawled into the corner and refused to come out, so he went into the shower with her.

He pulled her into his arms and pressed a fierce kiss against her hair.

"I'm_not _sorry," he hissed, "I love you and I'm _not_sorry," and the water came down on their heads like a baptism.

END


	12. Delilah: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walter trots down the hill, summer-dry grass crunching underneath his feet. The horizon is vibrant, a tasteless hot pink and the nanny goat in his arms stirs and bleats pathetically. He yawns, sleepy in the face of daybreak, eager to be home.

Walter trots down the hill, summer-dry grass crunching underneath his feet. The horizon is vibrant, a tasteless hot pink and the nanny goat in his arms stirs and bleats pathetically. He yawns, sleepy in the face of daybreak, eager to be home.

Home is where the heart is and his heart, such as it is, is with her. Their den is set in the forgotten ruins of a temple to an equally forgotten Mediterranean god, pillars built in front of a natural cave system where it is cool and dark and peaceful. This tiny island their sanctuary, free of humans, a single beach breaking merciless vertical cliffs and positively crawling with feral goats. It's the perfect place for them to be together.

His Integra comes out to greet him, rubbing her eyes, restful and fretting. He never gives her as much blood as she'd like, because if he indulged both her and his own gluttony the goats would be gone in no time and they'd have to move on. Growling low in her throat, she lunges forward, her wild hair everywhere and the nanny squeals and dies. She's as messy as ever, blood all over her face and she's so trembling, delicious, that he simply has to lick it away.

They don't talk. There's really nothing to say. Nudging her, he gently urges her towards the cave; like her sire she doesn't burn easily, but she has a tendency to wander and Walter has utterly no intention of trying to find her in the morning light. It's happened once; he finally found her sheltered behind a rock, wrapped up in a defensive ball and by then the sun was so high that he'd had no option but to wrap himself around her and shield her with his body. The burns were agonising and even with the vampire's famed regeneration, had taken weeks to heal.

Walter misses human blood. He misses the hunt and the kill. Feral goats are cunning foes but they lack a certain vital spark and they smell badly besides. Sometimes, on the rare occasions that teenagers or rich tourists land on the beach, he stows on board their boat and waits for them to come back. Then, when the boat is out to sea, he waits again for the sun to set and comes out with the night. He's gotten good at scuttling boats. He's gotten very good at night swimming. Sharks taste bad, but they're a challenge. He always keeps the money and the jewellery afterwards; he knows that it'll come in handy one day, and his Integra likes things that sparkle, she wears layers of gold and gemstones and dances for him in the moonlight. She looks beautiful in the necklace of purple river pearls and blue glass beads that he bought for her in Venice. He has tried carrying the blood to her in his mouth and his stomach, but it doesn't work because he always, at some point, swallows. Now he just takes a thermos.

A little ways inside the cave system there is a little grotto, sandy floor, low, comfortable ceiling. Small holes in the walls let the sunlight in but they are easily plugged with hide or hair or grass and when the sun is behind the island, he can use them to see out. When he can't sleep he explores the cave system. It's quite extensive and he suspects that it'll be some time before he's discovered it all. He's been looking for underwater links to other islands. He hasn't found any yet but he's hopeful.

Great banks of white candles line the grotto walls. His Integra is afraid of the dark. In the dark the both of them can feel...

..._him._

Alucard.

Walter whines, deep in his throat. It's equal parts fear and desire. Hiding is difficult for him, and vampires are territorial. He hasn't fought in so long and he misses it. Alucard obviously has other things to do, but there is blood connecting all three of them, and on odd occasions Walter feels him, searching. Alucard is old and bound by the sea and his power is limited by it. Otherwise, the former butler and his Integra would have been found and exterminated a long time ago.

With quick movements, he lights the candles. His Integra just stands there, in the middle of the floor, head titled as she listens to Alucard's call. Walter has made certain that she knows better than to answer it.

He's made a little hollow in the sand, lined it with summer-dried grass so that it is soft and fragrant. He lies down in this now, pulls her down beside him. Gentle bites to her neck and shoulders to distract her; she likes that, mews appreciatively and arches her back. As much as he'd like her too, he doesn't let her bite him back. She's not ready for independence and he's not ready to give it to her.

Walter isn't stupid. He knows that his time is comparatively limited. There's always Alucard, or the bastard Sir Hellsing and if he can avoid them for long enough there's always his Integra. She still isn't what she was before she was shot and any progress has slowed dramatically with his vampire blood. Nevertheless, as slow as it is, progress is progress and sometimes he can feel something slow and angry and powerful slip through the tangled layers of her mind. If it's not Alucard, she'll doubtless be the death of him one day.

He buries his face in her hair, breathes in. It can only be expected. She is, after all, his Integra.

His little girl.


	13. NOTES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a thief, a liar, and a dreadful plagiarist. I just thought that I'd make that clear from the start.

I'm a thief, a liar, and a dreadful plagiarist. I just thought that I'd make that clear from the start.

Honestly, I've stolen quotes and storylines left, right and centre, up and down. It's amazing nobody's called me out on it but then again, perhaps there are simply too many bits of thievery for any one person to count.

Another thing that should be made clear: if you've found any spelling mistakes, missing words, extra words, errors grammatical in these revised chapters of _S&amp;D _I'd be very grateful, very, very grateful, if you'd keep it to yourself. Honestly, the amount of times I've asked for a beta reader and received only dead silence in return is ridiculous. In the end I've done the best I could and that will have to suffice.

**Prequel: ** **Delilah 1:**

This whole story originally started out as a one-shot drabble, the first _Delilah _piece. I tend to start a lot of things this way; I get an idea, I write a drabble and the clutter in my brain is temporarily gone. _Delilah _unfortunately stayed, mutated and bred. Editing aside, _S&amp;D _took me about fifteen months to complete. It's the longest complete work I've ever done and weighs in at around forty thousand words. Considering that I'd much prefer writing a drabble or vignette any time, this was sheer agony and I'm delighted it's over.

**Chapter 1: Samson 1**

This chapter has received the most extensive work out of the whole edit. Mostly everywhere else just made do with a shave and a haircut, this one got rewritten.

Important interaction between Walter and Integra, and a nice contrast between the Walter before she gets shot and the Walter afterwards. For the first time in his life he's helpless. He doesn't cope well with it at all. Also, it's important that his dislike of Sir Hellsing is shown to be not entirely warranted, and that Sir Hellsing's dislike of Walter probably is. I should also apologise for having an original character, but I honestly couldn't figure out a way to do without him entirely.

**Chapter 2: Samson 2**

_S&amp;D _set mainly in the manga and OVA-verse, but there's a distinct lack of named characters in either that would do what I needed them to do. So, I roped in Chris Pickman (along with certain other characters) from the television series and gave him a personality. Strictly speaking, Captain Gareth would have been better as Pickman comes across as rather serious and dour in what time he has before Alucard shoots him, but as both characters have approximately a collective eight minutes screen time, it probably doesn't matter.

There's also an Angela Carter reference at the end, but there's a lot of those about.

**Chapter 3: Samson 3**

Gerontophilia: Sexual attraction to the elderly amongst the non-elderly. Strictly-speaking Alucard is far older than Integra so matter how wrinkled she gets, it's not gerontophilia. It is, however, quite possibly paedophilia. This is based on several places in the manga where Alucard states that he finds older people more attractive. My personal feeling is that it's midway between a sexual kink and a simple observation that the older people have more experience in life they and so the more interesting they tend to be.

_Alice in Wonderland _is, I feel, an excellent accompaniment to _Hellsing:_

_'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked._

_'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'_

_'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice._

_'You must be,' said the Cat, or you wouldn't have come here.'_

Everyone in _Hellsing _is, in their own special way, quite mad. And Walter is quite possibly the craziest of the lot of them and hides it the best of them. There was a fanfiction that came out at much the same time as this that examined the similarities between _Hellsing _and _Alice in Wonderland _beautifully, but I didn't favourite it and for the life I can't remember who it's by. A pointer would be fantastic.

The rabbit Giggi was actually my brother's. The My Little Ponies, I must admit, belonged to me. "A horse that is smiling is a horse that is planning something." This comes from Terry Pratchett. It's not an exact quote, but is close enough.

There's also a quote from Jeff Wayne's _Musical Version of War of the Worlds _at the end there: _"Abruptly, the sound ceased."_

**Chapter 4: Sound of Spiders Weeping 1**

The chapter title comes from a section of Peter S. Beagle's _The Last Unicorn; _it refers to the despair one has when all one's illusions have been destroyed and one is left with nothing. I've quoted it in full in a later chapter.

A lot of people asked about the significance of Walter's dream. It's partially to establish a certain tendency towards sexualised violence towards women on Walter's part (as opposed to his regular kind of violence) and also to provide a reasonable explanation as to why he'd still be a virgin in his sixties. I played fast and loose with a lot of cannon, but the 'only virgins can become vampires' rule I kept. It also makes clear that whatever he tells himself, his love for Integra is_ not_ purely platonic. Up until this point I'd been deliberately vague about this but even with this definition there were many who still persisted in seeing Walter as entirely 'innocent'.

I cannot emphasize just how much influence the first OVA had on this story: that shot of Walter in the opening frames, tenderly taking off her coat, staring at the world through Integra's falling hair with this _unbelievably _creepy smile. It made my hair stand on end and it also made the wheels in my brain turn furiously. I didn't think that creepiness was an accident. This continual bullshit that is sprouted, about Walter and Integra having a father-daughter relationship holds as much water as the persistent tendency of so many fanfic writers to interpret him as a wise, kindly old man who just happens to have a rather sordid past. It's about as fatherly as my ex-landlord who tried to get me drunk so that he could rape me, and when that didn't work, hid cameras in the bathroom ceiling.

I should also mention the other main influence on Walter's characterisation: one of my brothers talking about the war in Iraq. We were discussing the main bitch that the Australian media had about our troops, which was that while there were whole packs of media following the Yanks around no media whatsoever (at that stage) was allowed close to our own Australian troops.

"It sounds rather suspect to me."

"Oh, come off it," he snapped. "Our troops there are all SAS. They're not going to want cameras anywhere near them. They're probably already living in holes in the desert, eating snakes and drinking their own urine like the freaky little nutjobs that they are."

It must be said that my brother is like a hefty percentage of my family, i.e. a one-time member of the armed forces. Doubtless he knows a freaky little military Special Services nutjob when he sees one.

The little dance that Alucard and Integra do in the moonlight has no intrinsic meaning beyond a basic demonstration of their relationship, i.e, that as much as a monster like him is capable of love, he loves her and that Walter is not jealous of their bond like he is of Pickman. Also, I liked writing it.

Integra's little hissy fit should have dealt yet another blow to Walter as a sympathetic character: she's just beaten the crap of an innocent woman and here he is congratulating her while the poor nurse is bleeding gently into the carpet.

**Chapter 5: Samson 4**

There were many people in the beginning who interpreted Walter's 'love' for Integra as purely paternal, tender and nurturing. It seemed strange just how long this interpretation persisted, right up to the last chapter in a lot of cases. A certain number asked me directly whether his feelings were, ah, 'pure'.

In the beginning when I conceived this story these feelings certainly weren't. Indeed, one of the first pieces from _S&amp;D _I ever did was the scene where Walter performs his armature gynaecology to ascertain if Integra's hymen was still intact, only this incarnation it was a full-on digital rape. Not pretty and frankly, a little rough on the ol' nerves for this writer. The sheer, blinding stupidity of relying on the presence of a hymen as an indicator for virginity aside, it was too raw. I wanted people to feel sorry for Walter, at least at first. (I also didn't want to be woken in the middle of the night by Molotov cocktails flying in through my bedroom window.) Not quite as much as some evidently did, but pity was required the first half of the story. So, the digital rape was converted to what could be interpreted as an accidental slip and the story moved on with much more ambiguity. Ultimately, what it comes down to is this: Walter thinks he loves Integra in a purely platonic sense. Walter is lying to himself. And if you believe Walter when he says that his little grope was just an accidental slip, consider that the timing, where any injuries she'd inflict on him would not be questioned given her violence in the hours before, was more than a little on the convenient side.

Note that in the case of the loquacious security systems planner, that Walter's not above premeditated, cold-blooded murder if he thinks that it's in the best interest of the Hellsing organisation.

As for him being a human with unique biology, I'm personally convinced that he's a bit more than someone who just happens to have good reflexes. In the manga just about everyone has had a flashback origin scene, Walter has not. And in the _Hellsing _prequel, _The Dawn, _Arthur says that Walter received training before he came to the organisation, making me wonder if he wasn't part of some super solider experiment. However, that remains to be seen.

**Chapter 6: Sound of Spiders Weeping 2**

"Sympathy from the devil." Hahahaha!

Walter's little speech is the single best part out of _S&amp;D, _IMHO. Well, that and it's finished.

I remember having a row with Thess (Sir Hellsing over on LiveJournal) about Integra being sacrificed by the Queen at the end of the television series. She didn't think that it was fair or right. As I pointed out, fairness has nothing to do with it. Her role was to remain hidden from the world and she blew it, spectacularly, no matter the what the circumstances behind were. The same applies to Walter getting the blame over Integra being injured. It doesn't matter that he was helpless to prevent it. _He was there. _He was there when his superior officer was shot. And Walter being Walter, the blame heaped upon his head would only be higher.

The story about the RAAF (Royal Australian Air Force) was part of a set of two narrated to me by an older gentleman who swears that both are true. The second story, which I couldn't find a way to use, involved the Scottish Highlands, a group doing bombing practice, and salmon that were not legally allowed to be fished but could be collected _if they happened to be already dead._ Connect the dots and add Winston Churchill- apparently he was there and participated enthusiastically.

Mutton: boiled, baked, buggered and bewildered. One of my grandfathers would never allow any sort of sheep's meat in the house after the war.

In regards to Pickman being a formidable war nurse, my family's military history again rears its head.

Nanna was a ranked officer as well as a nurse and she ended up in a rather large number of theatres of war around the world. Now, there was a certain amount of people around at the time who didn't have much respect for the war nurses, and thus wandered around saying that all they were good for were sleeping with the officers. Naturally, the idiots saying this tended to be the ones not actually doing the fighting and getting patched up afterwards. So a particular idiot mouths off at Nanna during a war memorial service, and my father watches the whole thing. Said idiot was lucky that one of her former patients got to him before she did- I never met her, which was probably a good thing because she'd have eaten me alive- and told him quite a few things, first and foremost that he was indeed an idiot, because she'd saved that former patient's life.

The former patient also went on to add a few more things during later conversation with my father, like how my Nanna was the first woman he'd ever heard swear in those more gentile times: a mortar came flying straight through the hospital tent to land right in the middle of the rows of beds.

_"Oh, f__uck!" _yelled my grandmother (as you would). And then immediately turned around to this solider in his bed and growled, "You heard me say nothing, solider, is that understood?"

About Walter sleeping less than two hours every night, see articles on manic depression and try living with a raving manic depressive that's off their medication. They're crazy enough to do anything.

**Chapter 7: Samson 5**

Venice doesn't smell that bad. Trust me, I work with raw sewerage on a regular basis. If you think Venice smells bad, believe me when I say that bad smells can get a lot worse.

That said, I've tried to be brief as possible on all the cities and countries that this covers. I've done a nine-day Contitki trip and that's not really enough time to learn anything. But of all the places I went to, Venice was what I most wanted to see and what made the most impact on me. It was sad. Seeing Venice is like hearing all your life about a fabulous courtesan and when you finally meet her, you discover that she's become an aged tart with her lipstick bleeding into the wrinkles around her mouth. Everywhere you look you can see ruins of what was once fantastic beauty.

Kinda applies to Walter too, if you swap 'courtesan' with 'warrior'.

**Chapter 8: Samson 6**

Helena was one of the few original characters from the television series I liked, despite the fact she was a lousy Claudia rip off.

Ever come across a black German Sheppard at night? All you can see are white teeth rushing up at you from the darkness, and those teeth are _huge._

_ "Will you walk into my parlour?" said the spider to the fly;_ _'Tis_ _ the prettiest little parlour that ever you may spy._ _The way into my parlour is up a winding stair_ _And I have many curious things to show when you are there."_ _"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain_ _For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again._ _"_

Millarca.

It's weird.

Bizarre, actually.

So many people asked me who she was, yet were apparently perfectly familiar with the original _Dracula. _So many people asked me yet there it was at the bottom of the chapter, right there in black and white.

To rehash:

It seemed appropriate, given that _Hellsing _is essentially based on the whole _Dracula _mythos, to bring in a vampire that's been ripped off, reused and abused almost as much as Dracula himself: Carmilla, Countess Karnstein, who made her original appearance in Sheridan LeFanu's _Carmilla_slightly before _Dracula _was published, if memory serves. I also needed an old and powerful vampire that would give Walter a fight but not too much of one. Carmilla was old, cunning as hell and quite frightening but in many ways she was quite weak. As an added bonus she appeared as 'Laura' in the television series and while she was able to fuck with just about everyone's mind with ease, was easily annihilated by Alucard.

By the way, there are some people who will tell you that Carmilla in the television series was not Carmilla at all, despite the fact that Integra calls her first Laura, the name of the main character in _Carmilla_and then asks her point blank if she is Carmilla, here to get revenge on the Hellsing family for wiping out her family. There's also the mysterious black animal that Seras saw in the foyer- possibly Alucard, but likely to be the same black cat form that Carmilla takes in the book.

Some people will tell you that Carmilla is not Carmilla at all because apparently 'Boovanshe' is poorly Romanised "Baoban Sith" a kind of Irish vampire.

Some people will not be able to tell you why being called 'Boovanshe' automatically negates all possibility of Carmilla being Carmilla.

Some people are full of shit.

In the meantime, read the original _Carmilla_It's actually better than the original _Dracula _and as a bonus contains lesbians.

**Chapter 9: Samson 7**

It's worth noting that Carmilla died at the end of _Carmilla_It's also worth noting that Dracula died at the end of _Dracula, _and it doesn't appear to have stopped either of them much.

There's a quote here from the amazing short story _Escape Artist _by Caitlin R. Kiernan.

The scene with Walter and the old woman was unbelievably difficult to write. Not because of garden variety writers' block, but because it's an extremely nasty scene even by my standards. It's horrible. One thing to get into a brawl with fellow monsters, another thing to prey on the helpless and elderly.

**Chapter 10: Samson 8**

Not much to say here other than that it's amazing how characters sometimes do things you don't expect. I was halfway through this chapter when I suddenly realised that Pickman had developed a life of his own: he'd turned the gun on Integra, threatened to shoot her and informed the world in general that his goal was to keep Walter under control. Integra herself was irrelevant. Of course it fitted with nothing before and since and it had to be deleted. Still, it's fun contemplating how things would have turned out if Pickman really had murdered her.

A favourite question at the end of this chapter was, "Why wasn't Alucard angry with Walter?"

Quite simply, the entertainment value. Honestly, Alucard's going to get _centuries _out of this.

**Final Notes:**

**Integra's Characterisation **

You have no idea how difficult it was to write Integra the way I did. I essentially took everything about her that I loved and removed it. It hurt. A lot.

What it comes down to is this: I can either write about Walter, or Integra. But when I write with the pair of them together it becomes about their relationship, not the actual story. So in order to write about Walter I had to lobotomise Integra. And that was that.

**Where was ** **Seras**

It's not that I don't like her, it's just that I honestly can't think of anything to do with her. Also, with Seras it would change the whole Walter/Integra/Alucard dynamic and would render _S&amp;D _unrecognisable.

**Sir Hellsing**

I tried to have as little to do with him as possible, but I couldn't figure out a way to do without him entirely. If you're like me and generally dislike OCs, please accept my apologies. That said, despite my best efforts he did begin to develop a personality. He'd have to, I think, caught between two strong-willed monsters like Alucard and Walter. It's either that or join _S&amp;D _Integra in the nuthouse.

**The Final Word**

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is that. Thank you to everyone who read and kept reading even though my take on the _Hellsing _characters was not the usual one. Thank you to everyone who put this as a favourite and reviewed. _S&amp;D _was often painful to write, but as with all writing it helps to know if someone is reading.

I have written other _Hellsing _stories, but to date they've all been more adult-orientated and so have ended up at the Brothel rather than here. You can find direct links to other sites in my user profile.

Again, thanks so much for reading.

There will _**not **_be a sequel to _S&amp;D._

Amazing fanart can be found on silverjane's Deviant Art page and link to it in my user profile. Check it out, she's extremely talented (and I'm extremely flattered) and there are other artworks there as well.

\---

**Archive of Our Own Appendium**

 

This story was started in August '05 and completed July '08, originally posted to LiveJournal and archived on Fanfiction.net. There were many people who reviewed and supported me during writing it, and I continue to be very grateful for that. I have not made any alterations or editorial changes to this story; the import function is wonderful. I'd like to say that I am keeping it as is for the sake of authenticity, but truthfully I'm too lazy to go back and fix all the mistakes I made the last time.


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